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ELSIE  TENNER 


A ROMANCE  OE  DESTINY. 


By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES, 

AUTHOR  OF  “ THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE,”  ETC. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOLUME  II. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS. 


M DCCC  LXI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1861,  by 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 

in  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


riverside,  Cambridge: 
stereotyped  and  printed  by  n.  0.  HOUGHTON. 


y.  2. 

On  2> 

r 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

PAGE 

OLD  SOPHY  CALLS  ON  THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR  . . 5 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR  CALLS  ON  BROTHER  FAIR- 
WEATHER  27 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  SPIDER  ON  HIS  THREAD 38 

CHAPTER  XX. 

FROM  WITHOUT  AND  FROM  WITHIN  . . . 54 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  WIDOW  ROWENS  GIVES  A TEA-PARTY  . . 69 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

WHY  DOCTORS  DIFFER 103 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN 122 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

* 

ON  HIS  TRACKS 139 


800643 


IV 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  PERILOUS  HOUR 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  NEWS  REACHES  THE  DUDLEY  MANSION  . 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A SOUL  IN  DISTRESS 

CHAPTER  XXVIH. 

THE  SECRET  IS  WHISPERED  . 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  WHITE  ASH 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  GOLDEN  CORD  IS  LOOSED  .... 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MR.  SILAS  PECKHAM  RENDERS  HIS  ACCOUNT 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 


PAQE 

. 154 
. 185 

. 208 
. 221 
. 253 
. 266 
. 286 


CONCLUSION 


307 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

OLD  SOPHY  CALLS  ON  THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR. 

The  two  meeting-houses  which  faced  each 
other  like  a pair  of  fighting-cocks  had  not  flapped 
their  wings  or  crowed  at  each  other  for  a consid- 
erable time.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  had 
been  dyspeptic  and  low-spirited  of  late,  and  was 
too  languid  for  controversy.  The  Reverend  Doc- 
tor Honey  wood  had  been  very  busy  with  his  be- 
nevolent associations,  and  had  discoursed  chiefly 
on  practical  matters,  to  the  neglect  of  special 
doctrinal  subjects.  His  senior  deacon  ventured 
to  say  to  him  that  some  of  his  people  required  to 
be  reminded  of  the  great  fundamental  doctrine 
of  the  worthlessness  of  all  human  efforts  and  mo- 
tives. Some  of  them  were  altogether  too  much 
pleased  with  the  success  of  the  Temperance  So- 
ciety and  the  Association  for  the  Relief  of  the 
Poor.  There  was  a pestilent  heresy  about,  con- 
cerning the  satisfaction  to  be  derived  from  a good 
conscience,  — as  if  anybody  ever  did  anything 


6 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


which  was  not  to  be  hated,  loathed,  despised  and 
condemned. 

The  old  minister  listened  gravely,  with  an  in- 
ward smile,  and  told  his  deacon  that  he  would  at- 
tend to  his  suggestion.  After  the  deacon  had  gone,  . 
he  tumbled  over  his  manuscripts,  until  at  length 
he  came  upon  his  first-rate  old  sermon  on  “ Hu- 
man Nature.”  He  had  read  a great  deal  of  hard 
theology,  and  had  at  last  reached  that  curious 
state  which  is  so  common  in  good  ministers, — 
that,  namely,  in  which  they  contrive  to  switch 
off  their  logical  faculties  on  the  narrow  side-track 
of  their  technical  dogmas,  while  the  great  freight- 
train  of  their  substantial  human  qualities  keeps 
in  the  main  highway  of  common-sense,  in  which 
kindly  souls  are  always  found  by  all  who  approach 
them  by  their  human  side. 

The  Doctor  read  his  sermon  with  a pleasant, 
paternal  interest:  it  was  well  argued  from  his 
premises.  Here  and  there  he  dashed  his  pen 
through  a harsh  expression.  Now  and  then  he 
added  *an  explanation  or  qualified  a broad  state- 
ment. But  his  mind  was  on  the  logical  side- 
track, and  he  followed  the  chain  of  reasoning 
without  fairly  perceiving  where  it  would  lead 
him,  if  he  carried  it  into  real  life. 

He  was  just  touching  up  the  final  proposition, 
when  his  granddaughter,  Letty,  once  before  re- 
ferred to,  came  into  the  room  with  her  smiling 
face  and  lively  movement.  Miss  Letty  or  Letitia 
Forrester  was  a city -bred  girl  of  some  fifteen  or 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


7 


sixteen  years  old,  who  was  passing  the  summer 
with  her  grandfather  for  the  sake  of  country  air  and 
quiet.  It  was  a sensible  arrangement ; for,  having 
the  promise  of  figuring  as  a belle  by-and-by,  and 
being  a little  given  to  dancing,  and  having  a 
voice  which  drew  a pretty  dense  circle  around 
the  piano  when  she  sat  down  to  play  and  sing, 
it  was  hard  to  keep  her  from  being  carried  into 
society  before  her  time,  by  the  mere  force  of  mu- 
tual attraction.  Fortunately,  she  had  some  quiet 
as  well  as  some  social  tastes,  and  was  willing 
enough  to  pass  two  or  three  of  the  summer 
months  in  the  country,  where  she  was  much 
better  bestowed  than  she  would  have  been  at 
one  of  those  watering-places  where  so  many  half- 
formed  girls  get  prematurely  hardened  in  the  vice 
of  self-consciousness. 

Miss  Letty  was  altogether  too  wholesome, 
hearty,  and  high-strung  a young  girl  to  be  a 
model,  according  to  the  flat-chested  and  cachectic 
pattern  which  is  the  classical  type  of  certain  ex- 
cellent young  females,  often  the  subjects  of  bio- 
graphical memoirs.  But  the  old  minister  was 
proud  of  his  granddaughter  for  all  that.  She 
was  so  full  of  life,  so  graceful,  so  generous,  so 
vivacious,  so  ready  always  to  do  all  she  could  for 
him  and  for  everybody,  so  perfectly  frank  in  her 
avowed  delight  in  the  pleasures  which  this  miser- 
able world  offered  her  in  the  shape  of  natural 
beauty,  of  poetry,  of  music,  of  companionship, 
of  books,  of  cheerful  cooperation  in  the  tasks  of 


8 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


those  about  her,  that  the  Reverend  Doctor  could 
not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  condemn  her  because 
she  was  deficient  in  those  particular  graces  and 
that  signal  other-worldliness  he  had  sometimes 
noticed  in  feeble  young  persons  suffering  from 
various  chronic  diseases  which  impaired  their 
vivacity  and  removed  them  from  the  range  of 
temptation. 

When  Letty,  therefore,  came  bounding  into  the 
old  minister’s  study,  he  glanced  up  from  his  man- 
uscript, and,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  her,  it  flashed 
across  him  that  there  was  nothing  so  very  mon- 
strous and  unnatural  about  the  specimen  of  con- 
genital perversion  he  was  looking  at,  with  his 
features  opening  into  their  pleasantest  sunshine. 
Technically,  according  to  the  fifth  proposition  of 
the  sermon  on  Human  Nature,  very  bad,  no 
doubt.  Practically,  according  to  the  fact  before 
him,  a very  pretty  piece  of  the  Creator’s  handi- 
work, body  and  soul.  Was  it  not  a conceivable 
thing  that  the  divine  grace  might  show  itself  in 
* different  forms  in  a fresh'  young  girl  like  Letitia, 
and  in  that  poor  thing  he  had  visited  yesterday, 
half-grown,  half-colored,  in  bed  for  the  last  year 
with  hip-disease?  Was  it  to  be  supposed  that 
this  healthy  young  girl,  with  life  throbbing  all 
over  her,  could , without  a miracle,  be  good  ac- 
cording to  the  invalid  pattern  and  formula  ? 

And  yet  there  were  mysteries  in  human  nature 
which  pointed  to  some  tremendous  perversion  of 
its  tendencies,  — to  some  profound,  radical  vice 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


9 


of  moral  constitution,  native  or  transmitted,  as 
you  will  have  it,  but  positive,  at  any  rate,  as  the 
leprosy,  breaking  out  in  the  blood  of  races,  guard 
them  ever  so  carefully.  Did  he  not  know  the 
case  of  a young  lady  in  Rockland,  daughter  of 
one  of  the  first  families  in  the  place,  a very  beau- 
tiful and  noble  creature  to  look  at,  for  whose 
bringing-up  nothing  had  been  spared,  — a girl 
who  had  had  governesses  to  teach  her  at  the 
house,  who  had  been  indulged  almost  too  kindly, 
— a girl  whose  father  had  given  himself  up  to 
her,  he  being  himself  a pure  and  high-souled 
man  ? — and  yet  this  girl  was  accused  in  whis- 
pers of  having  been  on  the  very  verge  of  com- 
mitting a fatal  crime  ; she  was  an  object  of  fear 
to  all  who  knew  the  dark  hints  which  had  been 
let  fall  about  her,  and  there  were  some  that  be- 
lieved   Why,  what  was  this  but  an  instance 

of  the  total  obliquity  and  degeneration  of  the 
moral  principle  ? and  to  what  could  it  be  ow- 
ing, but  to  an  innate  organic  tendency  ? 

“ Busy,  grandpapa  ? ” said  Letty,  and  without 
waiting  for  an  answer  kissed  his  cheek  with  a 
pair  of  lips  made  on  purpose  for  that  little  func- 
tion,— fine,  but  richly  turned  out,  the  corners 
tucked  in  with  a finish  of  pretty  dimples,  the 
rose-bud  lips  of  girlhood’s  June. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  at  his  granddaugh- 
ter. Nature  swelled  up  from  his  heart  in  a wave 
that  sent  a glow  to  his  cheek  and  a sparkle  to  his 
eye.  But  it  is  very  hard  to  be  interrupted  just  as 


10 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


we  are  winding  up  a string  of  propositions  with 
the  grand  conclusion  which  is  the  statement  in 
brief  of  all  that  has  gone  before  : our  own  start- 
ing-point, into  which  we  have  been  trying  to  back 
our  reader  or  listener  as  one  backs  a horse  into 
the  shafts. 

“ Video  meliora , proboque , — I see  the  better, 
and  approve  it;  deteriora  sequor , I follow  after 
the  worse ; ’tis  that  natural  dislike  to  what  is 
good,  pure,  holy,  and  true,  that  inrooted  selfish- 
ness, totally  insensible  to  the  claims  of” 

Here  the  worthy  man  was  interrupted  by  Miss 
Letty. 

“ Do  come,  if  you  can,  grandpapa,”  said  the 
young  girl ; u here  is  a poor  old  black  woman 
wants  to  see  you  so  much ! ” 

The  good  minister  was  as  kind-hearted  as  if 
he  had  never  groped  in  the  dust  and  ashes  of 
those  cruel  old  abstractions  which  have  killed 
out  so  much  of  the  world’s  life  and  happiness. 
“ With  the  heart  man  believeth  unto  righteous- 
ness”; a man’s  love  is  the  measure  of  his  fit- 
ness for  good  or  bad  company  here  or  elsewhere. 
Men  are  tattooed  with  their  special  beliefs  like  so 
many  South- Sea  Islanders ; but  a real  human 
heart,  with  Divine  love  in  it,  beats  with  the  same 
glow  under  all  the  patterns  of  all  earth’s  thou- 
sand tribes ! 

The  Doctor  sighed,  and  folded  the  sermon,  and 
laid  the  Quarto  Cructen  on  it.  He  rose  from  his 
desk,  and,  looking  once  more  at  the  young  girl’s 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


11 


face,  forgot  his  logical  conclusions,  and  said  to 
himself  that  she  was  a little  angel,  — which  was 
in  violent  contradiction  to  the  leading  doctrine  of 
his  sermon  on  Human  Nature.  And  so  he  fol- 
lowed her  out  of  the  study  into  the  wide  entry 
of  the  old-fashioned  country-house. 

An  old  black  woman  sat  on  the  plain  oaken 
settle  which  humble  visitors  waiting  to  see  the 
minister  were  wont  to  occupy.  She  was  old,  but 
how  old  it  would  be  very  hard  to  guess.  She 
might  be  seventy.  She  might  be  ninety.  One 
could  not  swear  she  was  not  a hundred.  Black 
women  remain  at  a stationary  age  (to  the  eyes 
of  white  people,  at  least)  for  thirty  years.  They 
do  not  appear  to  change  during  this  period  any 
more  than  so  many  Trenton  trilobites.  Bent  up, 
wrinkled,  yellow-eyed,  with  long  upper-lip,  pro- 
jecting jaws,  retreating  chin,  still  meek  features, 
long  arms,  large  flat  hands  with  uncolored  palms 
and  slightly  webbed  fingers,  it  was  impossible  not 
to  see  in  this  old  creature  a hint  of  the  gradations 
by  which  life  climbs  up  through  the  lower  natures 
to  the  highest  human  developments.  We  cannot 
tell  such  old  women’s  ages  because  we  do  not 
understand  the  physiognomy  of  a race  so  unlike 
our  own.  No  doubt  they  see  a great  deal  in  each 
other’s  faces  that  we  cannot,  — changes  of  color 
and  expression  as  real  a§  our  own,  blushes  and 
sudden  betrayals  of  feeling, — just  as  these  two 
canaries  know  what  their  single  notes  and  short 
sentences  and  full  song  with  this  or  that  varia- 


12 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


tion  mean,  though  it  is  a mystery  to  us  unplumed 
mortals. 

This  particular  old  black  woman  was  a striking 
specimen  of  her  class.  Old  as  she  looked,  her 
eye  was  bright  and  knowing.  She  wore  a red- 
and-yellow  turban,  which  set  off  her  complexion 
well,  and  hoops  of  gold  in  her  ears,  and  beads  of 
gold  about  her  neck,  and  an  old  funeral  ring  upon 
her  finger.  She  had  that  touching  stillness  about 
her  which  belongs  to  animals  that  wait  to  be 
spoken  to  and  then  look  up  with  a kind  of  sad 
humility. 

“ Why,  Sophy ! ” said  the  good  minister,  “ is 
this  you  ? ” 

She  looked  up  with  the  still  expression  on  her 
face.  “ It’s  of  Sophy,”  she  said. 

“ Why,”  said  the  Doctor,  u I did  not  believe 
you  could  walk  so  far  as  this  to  save  the  Union. 
Bring  Sophy  a glass  of  wine,  Letty.  Wine’s 
good  for  old  folks  like  Sophy  and  me,  after  walk- 
ing a good  way,  or  preaching  a good  while.” 

The  young  girl  stepped  into  the  back-parlor, 
where  she  found  the  great  pewter  flagon  in 
which  the  wine  that  was  left  after  each  com- 
munion-service was  brought  to  the  minister’s 
house.  With  much  toil  she  managed  to  tip  it  so 
as  to  get  a couple  of  glasses  filled.  The  min- 
ister tasted  his,  and  rngde  old  Sophy  finish  hers. 

“ I wan’  to  see  you  ’n’  talk  wi’  you  all  alone,” 
she  said  presently. 

The  minister  got  up  and  led  the  way  towards 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


13 


his  study.  “ To  be  sure,”  he  said ; he  had  only 
waited  for  her  to  rest  a moment  before  he  asked 
her  into  the  library.  The  young  girl  took  her 
gently  by  the  arm.  and  helped  her  feeble  steps 
along  the  passage.  When  they  reached  the 
study,  she  smoothed  the  cushion  of  a rocking- 
chair,  and  made  the  old  woman  sit  down  in  it. 
Then  she  tripped  lightly  away,  and  left  her  alone 
with  the  minister. 

Old  Sophy  was  a member  of  the  Reverend 
Doctor  Honeywood’s  church.  She  had  been  put 
through  the  necessary  confessions  in  a tolerably 
satisfactory  manner.  To  be  sure,  as  her  grand- 
father had  been  a cannibal  chief,  according  to  the 
common  story,  and,  at  any  rate,  a terrible  wild 
savage,  and  as  her  mother  retained  to  the  last 
some  of  the  prejudices  of  her  early  education, 
there  was  a heathen  flavor  in  her  Christianity, 
which  had  often  scandalized  the  elder  of  the 
minister’s  two  deacons.  But  the  good  minis- 
ter had  smoothed  matters  over : had  explained 
that  allowances  were  to  be  made  for  those  who 
had  been  long  sitting  without  the  gate  of  Zion, 
— that,  no  doubt,  a part  of  the  curse  which  de- 
scended to  the  children  of  Ham  consisted  in 
“ having  the  understanding  darkened,”  as  well 
as  the  skin, — and  so  had  brought  his  suspi- 
cious senior  deacon  to  tolerate  old  Sophy  as 
one  of  the  communion  of  fellow-sinners. 


Poor  things ! How  little  we  know  the 


14 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


simple  notions  with  which  these  rudiments  of 
souls  are  nourished  by  the  Divine  Goodness  ! Did 
not  Mrs.  Professor  come  home  this  very  blessed 
morning  with  a story  of  one  of  her  old  black 
women  ? 

“ And  how  do  you  feel  to-day,  Mrs.  Robinson?” 

“ Oh,  my  dear,  I have  this  singing  in  my  head 
all  the  time.”  (What  doctors  call  tinnitus  aurium.) 

u She’s  got  a cold  in  the  head,”  said  old  Mrs. 
Rider. 

“ Oh,  no,  my  dear ! Whatever  I’m  thinking 
about,  it’s  all  this  singing,  this  music.  When  I’m 
thinking  of  the  dear  Redeemer,  it  all  turns  into 
this  singing  and  music.  When  the  dark  came  to 
see  me,  I asked  him  if  he  couldn’t  cure  me,  and 
he  said,  No,  — it  was  the  Holy  Spirit  in  me,  sing- 
ing to  me ; and  all  the  time  I hear  this  beautiful 
music,  and  it’s  the  Holy  Spirit  a-singing  to 
me.” 

The  good  man  waited  for  Sophy  to  speak ; but 
she  did  not  open  her  lips  as  yet. 

“ I hope  you  are  not  troubled  in  mind  or  body,” 
he  said  to  her  at  length,  finding  she  did  not  speak. 

The  poor  old  woman  took  out  a white  hand- 
kerchief, and  lifted  it  to  her  black  face.  She 
could  not  say  a word  for  her  tears  and  sobs. 

The  minister  would  have  consoled  her;  he  was 
used  to  tears,  and  could  in  most  cases  withstand 
their  contagion  manfully ; but  something  choked 
his  voice  suddenly,  and  when  he  called  upon  it, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


15 


he  got  no  answer,  but  a tremulous  movement  of 
the  muscles,  which  was  worse  than  silence. 

At  last  she  spoke. 

“ Oh,  no,  no,  no ! It’s  my  poor  girl,  my  dar- 
ling, my  beauty,  my  baby,  that’s  grown  up  to  be  a 
woman ; she  will  come  to  a bad  end ; she  will  do 
something  that  will  make  them  kill  her  or  shut 
her  up  all  her  life.  Oh,  Doctor,  Doctor,  save  her, 
pray  for  her ! It  a’n’t  her  fault.  It  a’n’t  her  fault. 
If  they  knew  all  that  I know,  they  wouldn’  blame 
that  poor  child.  I must  tell  you,  Doctor:  if  I 
should  die,  perhaps  nobody  else  would  tell  you. 
Massa  Venner  can’t  talk  about  it.  Doctor  Kit- 
tredge  won’t  talk  about  it.  Nobody  but  old  So- 
phy to  tell  you,  Doctor ; and  old  Sophy  can’t  die 
without  telling  you.” 

The  kind  minister  soothed  the  poor  old  soul 
with  those  gentle,  quieting  tones  which  had  car- 
ried peace  and  comfort  to  so  many  chambers  of 
sickness  and  sorrow,  to  so  many  hearts  overbur- 
dened by  the  trials  laid  upon  them. 

Old  Sophy  became  quiet  in  a few  minutes,  and 
proceeded  to  tell  her  story.  She  told  it  in  the  low 
half-whisper  which  is  the  natural  voice  of  lips  op- 
pressed with  grief  and  fears ; with  quick  glances 
around  the  apartment  from  time  to  time,  as  if  she 
dreaded  lest  the  dim  portraits  on  the  walls  and 
the  dark  folios  on  the  shelves  might  overhear  her 
words. 

It  was  not  one  of  those  conversations  which  a 
third  person  can  report  minutely,  unless  by  that 


16 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


miracle  of  clairvoyance  known  to  the  readers  of 
stories  made  out  of  authors’  brains.  Yet  its  main 
character  can  be  imparted  in  a much  briefer  space 
than  the  old  black  woman  took  to  give  all  its 
details. 

She  went  far  back  to  the  time  when  Dudley 
Venner  was  born,  — she  being  then  a middle-aged 
woman.  The  heir  and  hope  of  a family  which 
had  been  narrowing  down  as  if  doomed  to  extinc- 
tion, he  had  been  surrounded  with  every  care  and 
trained  by  the  best  education  he  could  have  in 
New  England.  He  had  left  college,  and  was 
studying  the  profession  which  gentlemen  of  lei- 
sure most  affect,  when  he  fell  in  love  with  a young 
girl  left  in  the  world  almost  alone,  as  he  was. 
The  old  woman  told  the  story  of  his  young  love 
and  his  joyous  bridal  with  a tenderness  which  had 
something  more,  even,  than  her  family  sympathies 
to  account  for  it.  Had  she  not  hanging  over  her 
bed  a paper-cutting  of  a profile — jet  black,  but 
not  blacker  than  the  face  it  represented  — of  one 
who  would  have  been  her  own  husband  in  the 
small  years  of  this  century,  if  the  vessel  in  which 
he  went  to  sea,  like  Jamie  in  the  ballad,  had  not 
sailed  away  and  never  come  back  to  land  ? Had 
she  not  her  bits  of  furniture  stowed  away  which 
had  been  got  ready  for  her  own  wedding,  — two 
rocking-chairs,  one  worn  with  long  use,  one  kept 
for  him  so  long  that  it  had  grown  a superstition 
with  her  never  to  sit  in  it, — and  might  he  not 
come  back  yet,  after  all  ? Had  she  not  her  chest 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


17 


of  linen  ready  for  her  humble  house-keeping,  with 
store  of  serviceable  huckaback  and  piles  of  neatly 
folded  kerchiefs,  wherefrom  this  one  that  showed 
so  white  against  her  black  face  was  taken,  for  that 
she  knew  her  eyes  would  betray  her  in  “ the 
presence  ” ? 

All  the  first  part  of  the  story  the  old  woman 
told  tenderly,  and  yet  dwelling  upon  every  inci- 
dent with  a loving  pleasure.  How  happy  this 
young  couple  had  been,  what  plans  and  projects 
of  improvement  they  had  formed,  how  they  lived 
in  each  other,  always  together,  so  young  and  fresh 
and  beautiful  as  she  remembered  them  in  that  one 
early  summer  when  they  walked  arm  in  arm 
through  the  wilderness  of  roses  that  ran  riot  in  the 
garden,  — she  told  of  this  as  loath  to  leave  it  and 
come  to  the  woe  that  lay  beneath. 

She  told  the  whole  story;  — shall  I repeat  it? 
Not  now.  If,  in  the  course  of  relating  the  inci- 
dents I have  undertaken  to  report,  it  tells  itself \ 
perhaps  this  will  be  better  than  to  run  the  risk  of 
producing  a painful  impression  on  some  of  those 
susceptible  readers  whom  it  would  be  ill-advised 
to  disturb  or  excite,  when  they  rather  require  to 
be  amused  and  soothed.  In  our  pictures  of  life, 
we  must  show  the  flowering-out  of  terrible 
growths  which  have  their  roots  deep,  deep  under- 
ground. Just  how  far  we  shall  lay  bare  the  un- 
seemly roots  themselves  is  a matter  of  discretion 
and  taste,  in  which  none  of  us  are  infallible. 

The  old  woman  told  the  whole  story  of  Elsie, 
2 


VOL.  II. 


18 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


of  her  birth,  of  her  peculiarities  of  person  and  dis- 
position, of  the  passionate  fears  and  hopes  with 
which  her  father  had  watched  the  course  of  her 
development.  She  recounted  all  her  strange  ways, 
from  the  hour  when  she  first  tried  to  crawl  across 
the  carpet,  and  her  father’s  look  as  she  worked  her 
way  towards  him.  With  the  memory  of  Juliet’s 
nurse  she  told  the  story  of  her  teething,  and  how, 
the  woman  to  whose  breast  she  had  clung  dying 
suddenly  about  that  time,  they  had  to  struggle 
hard  with  the  child  before  she  would  learn  the  ac- 
complishment of  feeding  with  a spoon.  And  so 
of  her  fierce  plays  and  fiercer  disputes  with  that 
boy  who  had  been  her  companion,  and  the  whole 
scene  of  the  quarrel  when  she  struck  him  with 
those  sharp  white  teeth,  frightening  her,  old  So- 
phy, almost  to  death  ; for,  as  she  said,  the  boy 
would  have  died,  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  old 
Doctor’s  galloping  over  as  fast  as  he  could  gallop 
and  burning  the  places  right  out  of  his  arm. 
Then  came  the  story  of  that  other  incident,  suf- 
ficiently alluded  to  already,  which  had  produced 
such  an  ecstasy  of  fright  and  left  such  a night- 
mare of  apprehension  in  the  household.  And  so 
the  old  woman  came  down  to  this  present  time. 
That  boy  she  never  loved  nor  trusted  was  grown 
to  a dark,  dangerous-looking  man,  and  he  was  un- 
der their  roof.  He  wanted  to  marry  our  poor 
Elsie,  and  Elsie  hated  him,  and  sometimes  she 
would  look  at  him  over  her  shoulder  just  as  she 
used  to  look  at  that  woman  she  hated ; and  she, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


10 


old  Sophy,  couldn’t  sleep  for  thinking  she  should 
hear  a scream  from  the  white  chamber  some  night 
and  find  him  in  spasms  such  as  that  woman 
came  so  near  dying  with.  And  then  there  was 
something  about  Elsie  she  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of : she  would  sit  and  hang  her  head  some- 
times, and  look  as  if  she  were  dreaming  ; and  she 
brought  home  books  they  said  a young  gentleman 
up  at  the  great  school  lent  her:  and  once  she 
heard  her  whisper  in  her  sleep,  and  she  talked  as 
young  girls  do  to  themselves  when  they’re  think- 
ing about  somebody  they  have  a liking  for  and 
think  nobody  knows  it. 

She  finished  her  long  story  at  last.  The  minis- 
ter had  listened  to  it  in  perfect  silence.  He  sat 
still  even  when  she  had  done  speaking,  — still, 
and  lost  in  thought.  It  was  a very  awkward 
matter  for  him  to  have  a hand  in.  Old  Sophy 
was  his  parishioner,  but  the  Venners  had  a pew 
in  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather’s  meeting-house. 
It  would  seem  that  he,  Mr.  Fairweather,  was  the 
natural  adviser  of  the  parties  most  interested. 
Had  he  sense  and  spirit  enough  to  deal  with  such 
people?  Was  there  enough  capital  of  humanity 
in  his  somewhat  limited  nature  to  furnish  sympa- 
thy and  unshrinking  service  for  his  friends  in  an 
emergency  ? or  was  he  too  busy  with  his  own 
attacks  of  spiritual  neuralgia,  and  too  much  oc- 
cupied with  taking  account  of  stock  of  his  own 
thin-blooded  offences,  to  forget  himself  and  his 
personal  interests  on  the  small  scale  and  the  large, 


20 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


and  run  a risk  of  his  life,  if  need  were,  at  any 
rate  give  himself  up  without  reserve  to  the  dan- 
gerous task  of  guiding  and  counselling  these  dis- 
tressed and  imperilled  fellow-creatures  ? 

The  good  minister  thought  the  best  thing  to  do 
would  be  to  call  and  talk  over  some  of  these  mat- 
ters with  Brother  Fairweather,  — for  so  he  would 
call  him  at  times,  especially  if  his  senior  deacon 
were  not  within  earshot.  Having  settled  this 
point,  he  comforted  Sophy  with  a few  words  of 
counsel  and  a promise  of  coming  to  see  her  very 
soon.  He  then  called  his  man  to  put  the  old 
white  horse  into  the  chaise  and  drive  Sophy  back 
to  the  mansion-house. 

When  the  Doctor  sat  down  to  his  sermon 
again,  it  looked  very  differently  from  the  way  it 
had  looked  at  the  moment  he  left  it.  When  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  he  did  not  feel  quite  so  sure 
practically  about  that  matter  of  the  utter  natural 
selfishness  of  everybody.  There  was  Letty,  now, 
seemed  to  take  a very  ^selfish  interest  in  that 
old  black  woman,  and  indeed  in  poor  people  gen- 
erally ; perhaps  it  would  not  be  too  much  to  say 
that  she  was  always  thinking  of  other  people. 
He  thought  he  had  seen  other  young  persons 
naturally  unselfish,  thoughtful . for  others  ; it 
seemed  to  be  a family  trait  in  some  he  had 
known. 

But  most  of  all  he  was  exercised  about  this 
poor  girl  whose  story  Sophy  had  been  telling. 
If  what  the  old  woman  believed  was  true,  — and 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


21 


it  had  too  much  semblance  of  probability,  — 
what  became  of  his  theory  of  ingrained  moral 
obliquity  applied  to  such  a case  ? If  by  the  vis- 
itation of  God  a person  receives  any  injury  which 
impairs  the  intellect  or  the  moral  perceptions,  is 
it  not  monstrous  to  judge  such  a person  by  our 
common  working  standards  of  right  and  wrong  ? 
Certainly,  everybody  will  answer,  in  cases  where 
there  is  a palpable  organic  change  brought  about, 
as  when  a blow  on  the  head  produces  insanity. 
Fools ! How  long  will  it  be  before  we  shall  learn 
that  for  every  wound  which  betrays  itself  to  the 
sight  by  a scar,  there  are  a thousand  unseen  mu- 
tilations that  cripple,  each  of  them,  some  one  or 
more  of  our  highest  faculties  ? If  what  Sophy 
told  and  believed  was  the  real  truth,  what  prayers 
could  be  agonizing  enough,  what  tenderness  could 
be  deep  enough,  for  this  poor,  lost,  blighted,  hap- 
less, blameless  child  of  misfortune,  struck  by  such 
a doom  as  perhaps  no  living  creature  in  all  the 
sisterhood  of  humanity  shared  with  her  ? 

The  minister  thought  these  matters  over  until 
his  mind  was  bewildered  with  doubts  and  tossed 
to  and  fro  on  that  stormy  deep  of  thought  heav- 
ing forever  beneath  the  conflict  of  windy  dogmas. 
He  laid  by  his  old  sermon.  He  put  back  a pile 
of  old  commentators  with  their  eyes  and  mouths 
and  hearts  full  of  the  dust  of  the  schools.  Then 
he  opened  the  book  of  Genesis  at  the  eighteenth 
chapter  and  read  that  remarkable  argument  of 
Abraham’s  with  his  Maker,  in  which  he  boldly 


22 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


appeals  to  first  principles.  He  took  as  his  text, 
“ Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  do  right?” 
and  began  to  write  his  sermon,  afterwards  so 
famous,  — “ On  the  Obligations  of  an  Infinite 
Creator  to  a Finite  Creature.” 

It  astonished  the  good  people,  who  had  been 
accustomed  so  long  to  repeat  mechanically  their 
Oriental  hyperboles  of  self-abasement,  to  hear 
their  worthy  minister  maintaining  that  the  dig- 
nified attitude  of  the  old  Patriarch,  insisting  on 
what  was  reasonable  and  fair  with  reference  to 
his  fellow-creatures,  was  really  much  more  re- 
spectful to  his  Maker,  and  a great  deal  manlier 
and  more  to  his  credit,  than  if  he  had  yielded  the 
whole  matter,  and  pretended  that  men  had  not 
rights  as  well  as  duties.  The  same  logic  which 
had  carried  him  to  certain  conclusions  with  refer- 
ence to  human  nature,  this  same  irresistible  logic 
carried  him  straight  on  from  his  text  until  he  ar- 
rived at  those  other  results,  which  not  only  aston- 
ished his  people,  as  was  said,  but  surprised  him- 
self. He  went  so  far  in  defence  of  the  rights  of 
man,  that  he  put  his  foot  into  several  heresies,  for 
which  men  had  been  burned  so  often,  it  was  time, 
if  ever  it  could  be,  to  acknowledge  the  demon- 
stration of  the  argumentum  ad  ignem.  He  did  not 
believe  in  the  responsibility  of  idiots.  He  did 
not  believe  a new-born  infant  was  morally  an- 
swerable for  other  people’s  acts.  He  thought  a 
man  with  a crooked  spine  would  never  be  called 
to  account  for  not  walking  erect.  He  thought, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


23 


if  the  crook  was  in  his  brain,  instead  of  his  back, 
he  could  not  fairly  *be  blamed  for  any  consequence 
of  this  natural  defect,  whatever  lawyers  or  divines 
might  call  it.  He  argued,  that,  if  a person  in- 
herited a perfect  mind,  body,  and  disposition,  and 
had  perfect  teaching  from  infancy,  that  person 
could  do  nothing  more  than  keep  the  moral  law 
perfectly.  But  supposing  that  the  Creator  allows 
a person  to  be  born  with  an  hereditary  or  ingrafted 
organic  tendency,  and  then  puts  this  person  into 
the  hands  of  teachers  incompetent  or  positively 
bad,  is  not  what  is  called  sin  or  transgression  of 
the  law  necessarily  involved  in  the  premises  ? Is 
not  a Creator  bound  to  guard  his  children  against 
the  ruin  which  inherited  ignorance  might  entail 
on  them  ? Would  it  be  fair  for  a parent  to  put 
into  a child’s  hands  the  title-deeds  to  all  its  future 
possessions,  and  a bunch  of  matches  ? And  are 
not  men  children,  nay,  babes,  in  the  eye  of  Om- 
niscience ? — The  minister  grew  bold  in  his  ques- 
tions. Had  not  he  as  good  right  to  ask  questions 
as  Abraham  ? 

This  was  the  dangerous  vein  of  speculation  in 
which  the  Reverend  Doctor  Honey  wood  found 
himself  involved,  as  a consequence  of  the  sug- 
gestions forced  upon  him  by  old  Sophy’s  com- 
munication. The  truth  was,  the  good  man  had 
got  so  humanized  by  mixing  up  with  other  peo- 
ple in  various  benevolent  schemes,  that,  the  very 
moment  he  could  escape  from  his  old  scholastic 
abstractions,  he  took  the  side  of  humanity  in- 


24 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


stinctively,  just  as  the  Father  of  the  Faithful  did, 
— all  honor  be  to  the  noble  old  Patriarch  for  in- 
sisting on  the  worth  of  an  honest  man,  and  mak- 
ing the  best  terms  he  could  for  a very  ill-condi- 
tioned metropolis,  which  might  possibly,  however, 
have  contained  ten  righteous  people,  for  whose 
sake  it  should  be  spared ! 

The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  that  he  was 
in  a singular  and  seemingly  self-contradictory 
state  of  mind  when  he  took  his  hat  and  cane  and 
went  forth  to  call  on  his  heretical  brother.  The 
old  minister  took  it  for  granted  that  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Fairweather  knew  the  plivate  history  of  his 
parishioner’s  family.  He  did  not  reflect  that  there 
are  griefs  men  never  put  into  words,  — that  there 
are  fears  which  must  not  be  spoken,  — intimate 
matters  of  consciousness  which  must  be  carried, 
as  bullets  which  have  been  driven  deep  into  the 
living  tissues  are  sometimes  carried,  for  a whole 
lifetime,  — ertcysted  griefs,  if  we  may  borrow 
the  chirurgeon’s  term,  never  to  be  reached,  never 
to  be  seen,  never  to  be  thrown  out,  but  to  go  into 
the  dust  with  the  frame  that  bore  them  about 
with  it,  during  long  years  of  anguish,  known  only 
to  the  sufferer  and  his  Maker.  Dudley  Venner 
had  talked  with  his  minister  about  this  child  of 
his.  But  he  had  talked  cautiously,  feeling  his 
way  for  sympathy,  looking  out  for  those  indica- 
tions of  tact  and  judgment  which  would  war- 
rant him  in  some  partial  communication,  at  least, 
of  the  origin  of  his  doubts  and  fears,  and  never 
finding  them. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


25 


There  was  something  about  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Fairweather  which  repressed  all  attempts  at  con- 
fidential intercourse.  What  this  something  was, 
Dudley  Venner  could  hardly  say  ; but  he  felt  it 
distinctly,  and  it  sealed  his  lips.  He  never  got 
beyond  certain  generalities  connected  with  edu- 
cation and  religious  instruction.  The  minister 
could  not  help  discovering,  however,  that  there 
were  difficulties  connected  with  this  giiTs  man- 
agement, and  he  heard  enough  outside  of  the 
family  to  convince  him  that  she  had  manifested 
tendencies,  from  an  early  age,  at  variance  with 
the  theoretical  opinions  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
preaching,  and  in  a dim  way  of  holding  for  truth, 
as  to  the  natural  dispositions  of  the  human 
being. 

About  this  terrible  fact  of  congenital  obliquity 
his  new  beliefs  began  to  cluster  as  a centre,  and 
to  take  form  as  a crystal  around  its  nucleus. 
Still,  he  might  perhaps  have  struggled  against 
them,  had  it  not  been  for  the  little  Roman  Cath- 
olic chapel  he  passed  every  Sunday,  on  his  way 
to  the  meeting-house.  Such  a crowd  of  worship- 
pers, swarming  into  the  pews  like  bees,  filling  all 
the  aisles,  running  over  at  the  door  like  berries 
heaped  too  full  in  the  measure,  — some  kneeling 
on  the  steps,  some  standing  on  the  side-walk, 
hats  off,  heads  down,  lips  moving,  some  looking 
on  devoutly  from  the  other  side  of  the  street! 
Oh,  could  he  have  followed  his  own  Bridget, 
maid.of  all  work,  into  the  heart  of  that  steaming 


26 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


throng,  and  bowed  his  head  while  the  priests  in- 
toned their  Latin  prayers ! could  he  have  snuffed 
up  the  cloud  of  frankincense,  and  felt  that  he 
was  in  the  great  ark  which  holds  the  better  half 
of  the  Christian  world,  while  all  around  it  are 
wretched  creatures,  some  struggling  against  the 
waves  in  leaky  boats,  and  some  on  ill-connected 
rafts,  and  some  with  their  heads  just  above  water, 
thinking  to  ride  out  the  flood  which  is  to  sweep 
the  earth  clean  of  sinners,  upon  their  own  private, 
individual  life-preservers ! 

Such  was  the  present  state  of  mind  of  the 
Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather,  when  his  clerical 
brother  called  upon  him  to  talk  over  the  ques- 
tions to  which  old  Sophy  had  called  his  attention. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


27 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR  CALLS  ON  BROTHER  FAIR- 
WEATHER. 

For  the  last  few  months,  while  all  these  vari- 
ous matters  were  going  on  in  Rockland,  the  Rev- 
erend Chauncy  Fairweather  had  been  busy  with 
the  records  of  ancient  councils  and  the  writings 
of  the  early  fathers.  The  more  he  read,  the  more 
discontented  he  became  with  the  platform  upon 
which  he  and  his  people  were  standing.  They 
and  he  were  clearly  in  a minority,  and  his  deep 
inward  longing  to  be  with  the  majority  was 
growing  into  an  engrossing  passion.  He  yearned 
especially  towards  the  good  old  unquestioning, 
authoritative  Mother  Church,  with  her  articles  of 
faith  which  took  away  the  necessity  for  private 
judgment,  with  her  traditional  forms  and  cere- 
monies, and  her  whole  apparatus  of  stimulants 
and  anodynes. 

About  this  time  he  procured  a breviary  and 
kept  it  in  his  desk  under  the  loose  papers.  He 
sent  to  a Catholic  bookstore  and  obtained  a small 
crucifix  suspended  from  a string  of  beads.  He 
ordered  his  new  coat  to  be  cut  very  narrow  in 


28 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  collar  and  to  be  made  single-breasted.  He 
began  an  informal  series  of  religious  conversa- 
tions with  Miss  O’Brien*  the  young  person  of 
Irish  extraction  already  referred  to  as  Bridget, 
maid  of  all  work.  These  not  proving  very  satis- 
factory, he  managed  to  fall  in  with  Father  Mc- 
Shane,  the  Catholic  priest  of  the  Rockland  church. 
Father  McShane  encouraged  his  nibble  very  sci- 
entifically. It  would  be  such  a fine  thing  to  bring 
over  one  of  those  Protestant  heretics,  and  fr 
“ liberal  ” one  too  ! — not  that  there  was  any  real 
difference  between  them,  but  it  sounded  better 
to  say  that  one  of  these  rationalizing  free-and- 
equal  religionists  had  been  made  a convert  than 
any  of  those  half-way  Protestants  who  were  the 
slaves  of  catechisms  instead  of  councils  and  of 
commentators  instead  of  popes.  The  subtle 
priest  played  his  disciple  with  his  finest  tackle. 
It  was  hardly  necessary  : when  anything  or  any- 
body wishes  to  be  caught,  a bare  hook  and  a 
coarse  line  are  all  that  is  needed. 

If  a man  has  a genuine,  sincere,  hearty  wish 
to  get  rid  of  his  liberty,  if  he  is  really  bent  upon 
becoming  a slave,  nothing  can  stop  him.  And  the 
temptation  is  to  some  natures  a very  great  one. 
Liberty  is  often  a heavy  burden  on  a man.  It  in- 
volves that  necessity  for  perpetual  choice  which  is 
the  kind  of  labor  men  have  always  dreaded.  In 
common  life  we  shirk  it  by  forming  habits , which 
take  the  place  of  self-determination.  In  politics 
party-organization  saves  us  the  pains  of  much 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


29 


thinking  before  deciding  how  to  cast  our  vote. 
In  religious  matters  there  are  great  multitudes 
watching  us  perpetually,  each  propagandist  ready 
with  his  bundle  of  finalities,  which  having  accept- 
ed we  may  be  at  peace.  The  more  absolute  the 
submission  demanded,  the  stronger  the  tempta- 
tion becomes  to  those  who  have  been  long  tossed 
among  doubts  and  conflicts. 

So  it  is  that  in  all  the  quiet  bays  which  indent 
the  shores  of  the  great  ocean  of  thought,  at  every 
sinking  wharf,  we  see  moored  the  hulks  and  the 
razees  of  enslaved  or  half-enslaved  intelligences. 
They  rock  peacefully  as  children  in  their  cradles 
on  the  subdued  swell  which  comes  feebly  in  over 
the  bar  at  the  harbor’s  mouth,  slowly  crusting 
with  barnacles,  pulling  at  their  iron  cables  as  if 
they  really  wanted  to  be  free,  but  better  contented 
to  remain  bound  as  they  are.  For  these  no  more 
the  round  unwalled  horizon  of  the  open  sea, 
the  joyous  breeze  aloft,  the  furrow,  the  foam,  the 
sparkle  that  track  the  rushing  keel ! They  have 
escaped  the  dangers  of  the  wave,  and  lie  still 
henceforth,  evermore.  Happiest  of  souls,  if  leth- 
argy is  bliss,  and  palsy  the  chief  beatitude ! 

America  owes  its  political  freedom  to  relig- 
ious Protestantism.  But  political  freedom  is  re- 
acting on  religious  prescription  with  still  mightier 
force.  We  wonder,  therefore,  when  we  find  a 
soul  which  was  born  to  a full  sense  of  individual 
liberty,  an  unchallenged  right  of  self-determina- 
tion on  every  new  alleged  truth  offered  to  its 


30 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


intelligence,  voluntarily  surrendering  any  portion 
of  its  liberty  to  a spiritual  dictatorship  which  al- 
ways proves  to  rest,  in  the  last  analysis,  on  a 
majority  vote , nothing  more  nor  less,  commonly 
an  old  one,  passed  in  those  barbarous  times 
when  men  cursed  and  murdered  each  other  for 
differences  of  opinion,  and  of  course  were  not  in 
a condition  to  settle  the  beliefs  of  a compara- 
tively civilized  community. 

In  our  disgust,  we  are  liable  to  be  intolerant. 
We  forget  that  weakness  is  not  in  itself  a sin. 
We  forget  that  even  cowardice  may  call  for  our 
most  lenient  judgment,  if  it  spring  from  innate 
infirmity.  Who  of  us  does  not  look  with  great 
tenderness  on  the  young  chieftain  in  the  “ Fair 
Maid  of  Perth,”  when  he  confesses  his  want  of 
courage  ? All  of  us  love  companionship  and  sym- 
pathy ; some  of  us  may  love  them  too  much.  All 
of  us  are  more  or  less  imaginative  in  our  the- 
ology. Some  of  us  may  find  the  aid  of  material 
symbols  a comfort,  if  not  a necessity.  The 
boldest  thinker  may  have  his  moments  of  lan- 
guor and  discouragement,  when  he  feels  as  if  he 
could  willingly  exchange  faiths  with  the  old  bel- 
dame crossing  herself  at  the  cathedral-door,  — 
nay,  that,  if  he  could  drop  all  coherent  thought, 
and  lie  in  the  flowery  meadow  with  the  brown- 
eyed solemnly  unthinking  cattle,  looking  up  to 
the  sky,  and  all  their  simple  consciousness  stain- 
ing itself  blue,  then  down  to  the  grass,  and  life 
turning  to  a mere  greenness,  blended  with  con- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


31 


fused  scents  of  herbs, — no  individual  mind-move- 
ment such  as  men  are  teased  with,  but  the  great 
calm  cattle-sense  of  all  time  and  all  places  that 
know  the  milky  smell  of  herds,  — if  he  could  be 
like  these,  he  would  be  content  to  be  driven  home 
by  the  cow-boy,  and  share  the  grassy  banquet  of 
the  king  of  ancient  Babylon.  Let  us  be  very 
generous,  then,  in  our  judgment  of  those  who 
leave  the  front  ranks  of  thought  for  the  company 
of  the  meek  non-combatants  who  follow  with  the 
baggage  and  provisions.  Age,  illness,  too  much 
wear  and  tear,  a half-formed  paralysis,  may  bring 
any  of  us  to  this  pass.  But  while  we  can  think 
and  maintain  the  rights  of  our  own  individuality 
against  every  human  combination,  let  us  not 
forget  to  caution  all  who  are  disposed  to  waver 
that  there  is  a cowardice  which  is  criminal,  and 
a longing  for  rest  which  it  is  baseness  to  indulge. 
God  help  him,  over  whose  dead  soul  in  his  liv- 
ing body  must  be  uttered  the  sad  supplication, 
Requiescat  in  pace  ! 

A knock  at  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather’s 
study-door  called  his  eyes  from  the  book  on  which 
they  were  intent.  He  looked  up,  as  if  expecting 
a welcome  guest. 

The  Reverend  Pierrepont  Honeywood,  D.  D., 
entered  the  study  of  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fair- 
weather.  He  was  not  the  expected  guest.  Mr. 
Fairweather  slipped  the  book  he  was  reading  into 
a half-open  drawer,  and  pushed  in  the  drawer. 


32 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


He  slid  something  which  rattled  under  a paper 
lying  on  the  table.  He  rose  with  a slight  change 
of  color,  and  welcomed,  a little  awkwardly,  his 
unusual  visitor. 

“ Good  evening,  Brother  Fairweather ! ” said 
the  Reverend  Doctor,  in  a very  cordial,  good- 
humored  way.  “ I hope  I am  not  spoiling  one  of 
those  eloquent  sermons  I never  have  a chance  to 
hear.” 

“ Not  at  all,  not  at  all,”  the  younger  clergyman 
answered,  in  a languid  tone,  with  a kind  of  ha- 
bitual half-querulousness  which  belonged  to  it,  — 
the  vocal  expression  which  we  meet  with  now 
and  then,  and  which  says  as  plainly  as  so  many 
words  could  say  it,  “ I am  a suffering  individual. 
I am  persistently  undervalued,  wronged,  and  im- 
posed upon  by  mankind  and  the  powers  of  the 
universe  generally.  But  I endure  all.  I endure 
you . Speak.  I listen.  It  is  a burden  to  me,  but 
I even  approve.  I sacrifice  myself.  Behold  this 
movement  of  my  lips  ! It  is  a smile.” 

The  Reverend  Doctor  knew  this  forlorn  way  of 
Mr.  Fairweather’s,  and  was  not  troubled  by  it. 
He  proceeded  to  relate  the  circumstances  of  his 
visit  from  the  old  black  woman,  and  the  fear  she 
was  in  about  the  young  girl,  who  being  a parish- 
ioner of  Mr.  Fairweather’s,  he  had  thought  it  best 
to  come  over  and  speak  to  him  about  old  Sophy’s 
fears  and  fancies. 

In  telling  the  old  woman’s  story,  he  alluded 
only  vaguely  to  those  peculiar  circumstances  tc 


ELSIE  VENNEU. 


33 


which  she  had  attributed  so  much  importance, 
taking  it  for  granted  that  the  other  minister  must 
be  familiar  with  the  whole  series  of  incidents  she 
had  related.  The  old  minister  was  mistaken,  as 
we  have  before  seen.  Mr.  Fairweather  had  been 
settled  in  the  place  only  about  ten  years,  and, 
if  he  had  heard  a strange  hint  now  and  then 
about  Elsie,  had  never  considered  it  as  anything 
more  than  idle  and  ignorant,  if  not  malicious,  vil- 
lage-gossip. All  that  he  fully  understood  was 
that  this  had  been  a perverse  and  unmanageable 
child,  and  that  the  extraordinary  care  which  had 
been  bestowed  on  her  had  been  so  far  thrown 
away  that  she  was  a dangerous,  self-willed  girl, 
whom  all  feared  and  almost  all  shunned,  as  if  she 
carried  with  her  some  malignant  influence. 

He  replied,  therefore,  after  hearing  the  story, 
that  Elsie  had  always  given  trouble.  There 
seemed  to  be  a kind  of  natural  obliquity  about 
her.  Perfectly  unaccountable.  A very  dark  case. 
Never  amenable  to  good  influences.  Had  sent 
her  good  books  from  the  Sunday-school  library. 
Remembered  that  she  tore  out  the  frontispiece  of 
one  of  them,  and  kept  it,  and  flung  the  book  out 
of  the  window.  It  was  a picture  of  Eve’s  temp- 
tation ; and  he  recollected  her  saying  that  Eve 
was  a good  woman,  — and  she’d  have  done  just 
so,  if  she’d  been  there.  A very  sad  child,  — very 
sad ; bad  from  infancy.  — He  had  talked  himself 
bold,  and  said  all  at  once,  — 

“ Doctor,  do  you  know  I am  almost  Veady  to 

VOL.  II.  3 


34 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


accept  your  doctrine  of  the  congenital  sinfulness 
of  human  nature  ? I am  afraid  that  is  the  only 
thing  which  goes  to  the  bottom  of  the  difficulty.” 
The  old  minister’s  face  did  not  open  so  approv- 
ingly as  Mr.  Fairweather  had  expected. 

44  Why,  yes,  — well,  — many  find  comfort  in  it, 
— I believe  ; — there  is  much  to  be  said,  — there 
are  many  bad  people, — and  bad  children, — I 
can’t  be  so  sure  about  bad  babies,  — though  they 
cry  very  malignantly  at  times,  — especially  if 
they  have  the  stomach-ache.  But  I really  don’t 
know  how  to  condemn  this  poor  Elsie  ; she  may 
have  impulses  that  act  in  her  like  instincts  in  the 
lower  animals,  and  so  not  come  under  the  bearing 
of  our  ordinary  rules  of  judgment.” 

44  But  this  depraved  tendency,  Doctor,  — this 
unaccountable  perverseness.  My  dear  Sir,  I am 
afraid  your  school  is  in  the  right  about  human  na- 
ture. Oh,  those  words  of  the  Psalmist,  4 shapen 
in  iniquity,’  and  the  rest ! What  are  we  to  do 
with  them,  — we  who  teach  that  the  soul  of  a 
child  is  an  unstained  white  tablet?” 

44  King  David  was  very  subject  to  fits  of  humil- 
ity, and  much  given  to  self-reproaches,”  said  the 
Doctor,  in  a rather  dry  way.  44  We  owe  you  and 
your  friends  a good  deal  for  calling  attention  to 
the  natural  grace^,  which,  after  all,  may,  perhaps, 
be  considered  as  another  form  of  manifestation 
of  the  divine  influence.  Some  of  our  writers  have 
pressed  rather  too  hard  on  the  tendencies  of  the 
human  soul  toward  evil  as  such.  It  maybe  ques- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


35 


tioned  whether  these  views  have  not  interfered 
with  the  sound  training  of  certain  young  persons, 
sons  of  clergymen  and  others.  I am  nearer  of 
your  mind  about  the  possibility  of  educating 
children  so  that  they  shall  become  good  Christians 
without  any  violent  transition.  That  is  what  I 
should  hope  for  from  bringing  them  up  ‘ in  the 
nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord.’  ” 

The  younger  minister  looked  puzzled,  but  pres- 
ently answered,  — 

“ Possibly  we  may  have  called  attention  to 
some  neglected  truths ; but,  after  all,  I fear  we 
must  go  to  the  old  school,  if  we  want  to  get  at 
the  root  of  the  matter.  I know  there  is  an  out- 
ward amiability  about  many  young  persons,  some 
young  girls  especially,  that  seems  like  genuine 
goodness  ; but  I have  been  disposed  of  late  to 
lean  toward  your  view,  that  these  human  affec- 
tions, as  we  see  them  in  our  children,  — ours,  I 
say,  though  I have  not  the  fearful  responsibility 
of  training  any  of  my  own,  — are  only  a kind  of 
disguised  and  sinful  selfishness.” 

The  old  minister  groaned  in  spirit.  His  heart 
had  been  softened  by  the  sweet  influences  of 
children  and  grandchildren.  He  thought  of  a 
half-sized  grave  in  the  burial-ground,  and  the 
fine,  brave,  noble-hearted  boy  be  laid  in  it  thirty 
years  before,  — the  sweet,  cheerful  child  who  had 
made  his  home  all  sunshine  until  the  day  when 
he  was  brought  into  it,  his  long  curls  dripping,  his 
fresh  lips  purpled  in  death,  — foolish  dear  little 


36 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


blessed  creature  to  throw  himself  into  the  deep 
water  to  save  the  drowning  boy,  who  clung  about 
him  and  carried  him  under ! Disguised  selfish- 
ness! And  his  granddaughter  too,  whose  dis- 
guised selfishness  was  the  light  of  his  house- 
hold ! 

“ Don’t  call  it  my  view ! ” he  said.  “ Abstract- 
ly, perhaps,  all  natures  may  be  considered  vitiat- 
ed ; but  practically,  as  I see  it  in  life,  the  divine 
grace  keeps  pace  with  the  perverted  instincts  from 
infancy  in  many  natures.  Besides,  this  perversion 
itself  may  often  be  disease,  bad  habits  transmit- 
ted, like  drunkenness,  or  some  hereditary  misfor- 
tune, as  with  this  Elsie  we  were  talking  about.” 

The  younger  minister  was  completely  mystified. 
At  every  step  he  made  towards  the  Doctor’s  rec- 
ognized theological  position,  the  Doctor  took  just 
one  step  towards  his.  They  would  cross  each 
other  soon  at  this  rate,  and  might  as  well  ex- 
change pulpits,  — as  Colonel  Sprowle  once  wished 
they  would,  it  may  be  remembered. 

The  Doctor,  though  a much  clearer-headed  man, 
was  almost  equally  puzzled.  He  turned  the  con- 
versation again  upon  Elsie,  and  endeavored  to 
make  her  minister  feel  the  importance  of  bringing 
every  friendly  influence  to  bear  upon  her  at  this 
critical  period  of  her  life.  His  sympathies  did 
not  seem  so  lively  as  the  Doctor  could  have 
wished.  Perhaps  he  had  vastly  more  important 
objects  of  solicitude  in  his  own  spiritual  interests. 

A knock  at  the  door  interrupted  them.  The 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


37 


E/everend  Mr.  Fairweather  rose  and  went  towards 
it.  As  he  passed  the  table,  his  coat  caught  some- 
thing, which  came  rattling. to  the  floor.  It  was  a 
crucifix  with  a string  of  beads  attached.  As  he 
opened  the  door,  the  Milesian  features  of  Father 
McShane  presented  themselves,  and  from  their 
centre  proceeded  the  clerical  benediction  in  Fish- 
sounding  Latin,  Pax  vobiscum  ! 

The  Reverend  Doctor  Honey  wood  rose  and  left 
the  priest  and  his  disciple  together. 


38 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  SPIDER  ON  HIS  THREAD. 

There  was  nobody,  then,  to  counsel  poor  Elsie, 
except  her  father,  who  had  learned  to  let  her  have 
her  own  way  so  as  not  to  disturb  such  relations 
as  they  had  together,  and  the  old  black  woman, 
who  had  a real,  though  limited  influence  over  the 
girl.  Perhaps  she  did  not  need  counsel.  To  look 
upon  her,  one  might  well  suppose  that  she  was 
competent  to  defend  herself  against  any  enemy 
she  was  like  to  have.  That  glittering,  piercing 
eye  was  not  to  be  softened  by  a few  smooth 
words  spoken  in  low  tones,  charged  with  the 
common  sentiments  which  win  their  way  to 
maidens’  hearts.  Thnl  round,  lithe,  sinuous  fig- 
ure was  as  full  of  dangerous  life  as  ever  lay  under 
the  slender  flanks  and  clean-shaped  limbs  of  a 
pdiither. 

There  were  particular  times  when  Elsie  was  in 
such  a mood  that  it  must  have  been  a bold  per- 
son who  would  have  intruded  upon  her  with  re- 
proof or  counsel.  u This  is  one  of  her  days,”  old 
Sophy  would  say  quietly  to  her  father,  and  he 
would,  as  far  as  possible,  leave  her  to  herself. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


39 


These  days  were  more  frequent,  as  old  Sophy’s 
keen,  concentrated  watchfulness  had  taught  her, 
at  certain  periods  of  the  year.  It  was  in  the 
heats  of  summer  that  they  were  most  common 
and  most  strongly  characterized.  In  winter,  on 
the  other  hand,  she  was  less  excitable,  and  even 
at  times  heavy  and  as  if  chilled  and  dulled  in  her 
sensibilities.  It  was  a strange,  paroxysmal  kind 
of  life  that  belonged  to  her.  It  seemed  to  come 
and  go  with  the  sunlight.  All  winter  long  she 
would  be  comparatively  quiet,  easy  to  manage, 
listless,  slow  in  her  motions ; her  eye  would  lose 
something  of  its  strange  lustre ; and  the  old  nurse 
would  feel  so  little  anxiety,  that  her  whole  ex- 
pression and  aspect  would  show  the  change,  and 
people  would  say  to  her,  “ Why,  Sophy,  how 
young  you’re  looking!” 

As  the  spring  came  on,  Elsie  would  leave  the 
fireside,  have  her  tiger-skin  spread  in  the  empty 
southern  chamber  next  the  wall,  and  lie  there 
basking  for  whole  hours  in  the  sunshine.  As  the 
season  warmed,  the  light  would  kindle  afresh  in 
her  eyes,  and  the  old  woman’s  sleep  would  grow 
restless  again,  — for  she  knew,  that,  so  long  as  the 
glitter  was  fierce  in  the  girl’s  eyes,  there  was  no 
trusting  her  impulses  or  movements. 

At  last,  when  the  veins  of  the  summer  were  hot 
and  swollen,  and  the  juices  of  all  the  poison-plants  • 
and  the  blood  of  all  the  creatures  that  feed  upon 
them  had  grown  thick  and  strong,  — about  the 
time  when  the  second  mowing  was  in  hand,  and 


40 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  brown,  wet-faced  men  were  following  up  the 
scythes  as  they  chased  the  falling  waves  of  grass, 
(falling  as  the  waves  fall  on  sickle-curved  beach- 
es ; the  foam-flowers  dropping  as  the  grass-flowers 
drop,  — with  sharp  semivowel  consonantal  sounds, 
— frsh , — for  that  is  the  way  the  sea  talks,  and 
leaves  all  pure  vowel-sounds  for  the  winds  to 
breathe  over  it,  and  all  mutes  to  the  unyielding 
earth,) — about  this  time  of  over-ripe  midsummer, 
the  life  of  Elsie  seemed  fullest  of  its  malign  and 
restless  instincts.  This  was  the  period  of  the 
year  when  the  Rockland  people  were  most  cau- 
tious of  wandering  in  the  leafier  coverts  which 
skirted  the  base  of  The  Mountain,  and  the  farm- 
ers liked  to  wear  thick,  long  boots,  whenever  they 
went  into  the  bushes.  But  Elsie  was  never  so 
much  given  to  roaming  over  The  Mountain  as 
at  this  season ; and  as  she  had  grown  piore  abso- 
lute and  uncontrollable,  she  was  as  like  to  take 
the  night  as  the  day  for  her  rambles. 

At  this  season,  too,  all  her  peculiar  tastes  in 
dress  and  ornament  came  out  in  a more  striking 
way  than  at  other  times.  She  was  never  so 
superb  as  then,  and  never  so  threatening  in  her 
scowling  beauty.  The  barred  skirts  she  always 
fancied  showed  sharply  beneath  her  diaphanous 
muslins ; the  diamonds  often  glittered  on  her 
• breast  as  if  for  her  own  pleasure  rather  than  to 
dazzle  others ; the  asp-like  bracelet  hardly  left 
her  arm.  She  was  never  seen  without  some 
necklace,  — either  the  golden  cord  she  wore  at  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


41 


great  party,  or  a chain  of  mosaics,  or  simply  a 
ring  of  golden  scales.  Some  said  that  Elsie  al- 
ways slept  in  a necklace,  and  that  when  she  died- 
she  was  to  be  buried  in  one.  It  was  a fancy  of 
hers,  — but  many  thought  there  was  a reason  for 
it. 

Nobody  watched  Elsie  with  a more  searching 
eye  than  her  cousin,  Dick  Venner.  He  had  kept 
more  out  of  her  way  of  late,  it  is  true,  but  there 
was  not  a movement  she  made  which  he  did  not 
carefully  observe  just  so  far  as  he  could  without 
exciting  her  suspicion.  It  was  plain  enough  to 
him  that  the  road  to*fortune  was  before  him,  and 
that  the.  first  thing  was  to  marry  Elsie.  What 
course  he  should  take  with  her,  or  with  others 
interested,  after  marrying  her,  need  not  be  decided 
in  a hurry. 

He  had  now  done  all  he  could  expect  to  do  at 
present  in  the  way  of  conciliating  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  household.  The  girl’s  father  tolerated 
him,  if  he  did  not  even  like  him.  Whether  he 
suspected  his  project  or  not  Dick  did  not  feel 
sure;  but  it  was  something  to  have  got  a foot- 
hold in  the  house,  and  to  have  overcome  any 
prepossession  against  him  which  his  uncle  might 
have  entertained.  To  be  a good  listener  and  a 
bad  billiard-player  was  not  a very  great  sacrifice 
to  effect  this  object.  Then  old  Sophy  could  hard- 
ly help  feeling  well-disposed  towards  him,  after 
the  gifts  he  had  bestowed  on  her  and  the  court 
he  had  payed  her.  These  were  the  only  persons 


42 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


on  the  place  of  much  importance  to  gain  over. 
The  people  employed  about  the  house  and  farm- 
lands had  little  to  do  with  Elsie,  except  to  obey 
her  without  questioning  her  commands. 

Mr.  Richard  began  to  think  of  reopening  his 
second  parallel.  But  he  had  lost  something  of 
the  coolness  with  which  he  had  begun  his  system 
of  operations.  The  more  he  had  reflected  upon 
the  matter,  the  more  he  had  convinced  himself 
that  this  was  his  one  great  chance  in  life.  If  he 
suffered  this  girl  to  escape  him,  such  an  oppor- 
tunity could  hardly,  in  the  nature  of  things,  pre- 
sent itself  a second  time.  Only  one  life  between 
Elsie  and  her  fortune,  — and  lives  are  so  uncer- 
tain ! The  girl  might  not  suit  him  as  a wife. 
Possibly.  Time  enough  to  find  out  after  he  had 
got  her.  In  short,  he  must  have  the  property,  and 
Elsie  Venner,  as  she  was  to  go  with  it,  — and  then, 
if  he  found  it  convenient  and  agreeable  to  lead  a 
virtuous  life,  he  would  settle  down  and  raise  chil- 
dren and  vegetables;  but  if  he  found  it  incon- 
venient and  disagreeable,  so  much  the  worse  for 
those  who  made  it  so.  Like  many  other  persons, 
he  was  not  principled  against  virtue,  provided  vir- 
tue were  a better  investment  than  its  opposite  ; 
but  he  knew  that  there  might  be  contingencies  in 
which  the  property  would  be  better  without  its  in- 
cumbrances, and  he  contemplated  this  conceivable 
problem  in  the  light  of  all  its  possible  solutions. 

One  thing  Mr.  Richard  could  not  conceal  from 
himself:  Elsie  had  some  new  cause  of  indifter- 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


43 


ence,  at  least,  if  not  of  aversion  to  him.  With 
the  acuteness  which  persons  who  make  a sole 
ousiness  of  their  own  interest  gain  by  practice,  so 
that  fortune-hunters  are  often  shrewd  where  real 
lovers  are  terribly  simple,  he  fixed  at  once  on  the 
young  man  up  at  the  school  where  the  girl  had 
been  going  of  late,  as  probably  at  the  bottom  of 
it. 

“ Cousin  Elsie  in  love  ! ” so  he  communed  with 
himself  upon  his  lonely  pillow.  “ In  love  with  a 
Yankee  school-master ! What  else  can  it  be  ? 
Let  him  look  out  for  himself!  He’ll  stand  but 
a bad  chance  between  us.  What  makes  you 
think  she’s  in  love  with  him  ? Met  her  walking 
wdth  him.  Don’t  like  her  looks  and  ways;  — 
she’s  thinking  about  something , anyhow.  Where 
does  she  get  those  books  she  is  reading  so  often  ? 
Not  out  of  our  library,  that’s  certain.  If  I could 
have  ten  minutes’  peep  into  her  chamber  now,  I 
would  find  out  where  she  got  them,  and  what 
mischief  she  was  up  to.” 

At  that  instant,  as  if  some  tributary  demon  had 
heard  his  wish,  a shape  which  could  be  none  but 
Elsie’s  flitted  through  a gleam  of  moonlight  into 
the  shadow  of  the  trees.  She  was  setting  out  on 
one  of  her  midnight  rambles. 

Dick  felt  his  heart  stir  in  its  place,  and  presently 
his  cheeks  flushed  with  the  old  longing  for  an 
adventure.  It  was  not  much  to  invade  a young 
girl’s  deserted  chamber,  but  it  would  amuse  a 

wakeful  hour,  and  tell  him  some  little  matters  he 

7 * 


44 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


wanted  to  know.  The  chamber  he  slept  in  was 
over  the  room  which  Elsie  chiefly  occupied  at 
this  season.  There  was  no  great  risk  of  his  being 
seen  or  heard,  if  he  ventured  down-stairs  to  her 
apartment. 

Mr.  Richard  Venner,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  inter- 
esting project,  arose  and  lighted  a lamp.  He 
wrapped  himself  in  a dressing-gown  and  thrust 
his  feet  into  a pair  of  cloth  slippers.  He  stole 
carefully  down  the  stair,  and  arrived  safely  at  the 
door  of  Elsie’s  room.  The  young  lady  had  taken 
the  natural' precaution  to  leave  it  fastened,  carry- 
ing the  key  with  her,  no  doubt,  — unless,  indeed, 
she  had  got  out  by  the  window,  which  was  not 
far  from  the  ground.  Dick  could  get  in  at  this 
window  easily  enough,  but  he  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  leaving  his  footprints  in  the  flower-bed 
just  under  it.  He  returned  to  his  own  chamber, 
and  held  a council  of  war  with  himself. 

He  put  his  head  out  of  his  own  window  and 
looked  at  that  beneath.  It  was  open.  He  then 
went  to  one  of  his  trunks,  which  he  unlocked,  and 
began  carefully  removing  its  contents.  What 
these  were  we  need  not  stop  to  mention,  — only 
remarking  that  there  were  dresses  of  various  pat- 
terns, which  might  afford  an  agreeable  series  of 
changes,  and  in  certain  contingencies  prove  emi- 
nently useful.  After  removing  a few  of  these,  he 
thrust  his  hand  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  remain- 
ing pile  and  drew  out  a coiled  strip  of  leather 
many  yards  in  length,  ending  in  a noose,  — a 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


45 


tough,  well-seasoned  lasso , looking  as  if  it  had 
seen  service  and  was  none  the  worse  for  it.  He 
uncoiled  a few  yards  of  this  and  fastened  it  to  the 
knob  of  a door.  Then  he  threw  the  loose  end 
out  of  the  window  so  that  it  should  hang  by  the 
open  casement  of  Elsie’s  room.  By  this  he  let 
himself  down  opposite  her  window,  and  with  a 
slight  effort  swung  himself  inside  the  room.  He 
lighted  a match,  found  a candle,  and,  having 
lighted  that,  looked  curiously  about  him,  as  Clo- 
dius  might  have  done  when  he  smuggled  himself 
in  among  the  Vestals. 

Elsie’s  room  was  almost  as  peculiar  as  her 
dress  and  ornaments.  It  was  a kind  of  museum 
of  objects,  such  as  the  woods  are  full  of  to  those 
who  have  eyes  to  see  them,  but  many  of  them 
such  as  only  few  could  hope  to  reach,  even  if 
they  knew  where  to  look  for  them.  Crows’  nests, 
which  are  never  found  but  in  the  tall  trees,  com- 
monly enough  in  the  forks  of  ancient  hemlocks, 
eggs  of  rare  birds,  which  must  have  taken  a quick 
eye  and  a hard  climb  to  find  and  get  hold  of, 
mosses  and  ferns  of  unusual  aspect,  and  quaint 
monstrosities  of  vegetable  growth,  such  as  Nature 
delights  in,  showed  that  Elsie  had  her  tastes  and 
fancies  like  any  naturalist  or  poet. 

Nature,  when  left  to  her  own  freaks  in  the 
forest,  is  grotesque  and  fanciful  to  the  verge  of 
license,  and  beyond  it.  The  foliage  of  trees  does 
not  always  require  clipping  to  make  it  look  like 
an  image  of  life.  From  those  windows  at  Canoe 


46 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Meadow,  among  the  mountains,  we  could  see  all 
summer  long  a lion  rampant,  a Shanghai  chicken, 
and  General  Jackson  on  horseback,  done  by  Na- 
ture in  green  leaves,  each  with  a single  tree.  But 
to  Nature’s  tricks  with  boughs  and  roots  and 
smaller  vegetable  growths  there  is  no  end.  Her 
fancy  is  infinite,  and  her  humor  not  always  re- 
fined. There  is  a perpetual  reminiscence  of  ani- 
mal life  in  her  rude  caricatures,  which  sometimes 
actually  reach  the  point  of  imitating  the  complete 
human  figure,  as  in  that  extraordinary  specimen 
which  nobody  will  believe  to  be  genuine,  except 
the  men  of  science,  and  of  which  the  discreet 
reader  may  have  a glimpse  by  application  in  the 
proper  quarter. 

Elsie  had  gathered  so  many  of  these  sculpture- 
like monstrosities,  that  one  might  have  thought 
she  had  robbed  old  Sophy’s  grandfather  of  his 
fetishes.  They  helped  to  give  her  room  a kind  of 
enchanted  look,  as  if  a witch  had  her  home  in  it. 
Over  the  fireplace  was  a long,  staff-like  branch, 
strangled  in  the  spiral  coils  of  one  of  those  vines 
which  strain  the  smaller  trees  in  their  clinging 
embraces,  sinking  into  the  bark  until  the  parasite 
becomes  almost  identified  with  its  support.  With 
these  sylvan  curiosities  were  blended  objects  of 
art,  some  of  them  not  less  singular,  but  others 
showing  a love  for  the  beautiful  in  form  and  color, 
such  as  a girl  of  fine  organization  and  nice  cul- 
ture might  naturally  be  expected  to  feel  and  to 
indulge,  in  adorning  her  apartment. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


47 


All  these  objects,  pictures,  bronzes,  vases,  and 
the  rest,  did  not  detain  Mr.  Richard  Yenner  very 
long,  whatever  may  have  been  his  sensibilities  to 
art.  He  was  more  curious  about  books  and  pa- 
pers. A copy  of  Keats  lay  on  the  table.  He 
opened  it „ and  read  the  name  of  Bernard  C. 
Langdon  on  the  blank  leaf.  An  envelope  was 
on  the  table  with  Elsie’s  name  written  in  a simi- 
lar hand  ; but  the  envelope  was  empty,  and  he 
could  not  find  the  note  it  contained.  Her  desk 
was  locked,  and  it  would  not  be  safe  to  tamper 
with  it.  He  had  seen  enough  ; the  girl  received 
books  and  notes  from  this  fellow  up  at  the  school, 
— this  usher,  this  Yankee  quill-driver;  — he  was 
aspiring  to  become  the  lord  of  the  Dudley  do- 
main, then,  was  he  ? 

Elsie  had  been  reasonably  careful.  She  had 
locked  up  her  papers,  whatever  they  might  be. 
There  was  little  else  that  promised  to  reward  his 
curiosity,  but  he  cast  his  eye  on  everything. 
There  was  a clasp -Bible  among  her  books.  Dick 
wondered  if  she  ever  unclasped  it.  There  was 
a book  of  hymns  ; it  had  her  name  in  it,  and 
looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  often  read ; — 
what  the  diablo  had  Elsie  to  do  with  hymns  ? 

Mr.  Richard  Venner  was  in  an  observing  and 
analytical  state  of  mind,  it  will  be  noticed,  or  he 
might  perhaps  have  been  touched  with  the  inno- 
cent betrayals  of  the  poor  girl’s  chamber.  Had 
she,  after  all,  some  human  tenderness  in  her 
heart  ? That  was  not  the  way  he  put  the  ques- 


48 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


tion, — but  whether  she  would  take  seriously  to 
this  schoolmaster,  and  if  she  did,  what  would  be 
the  neatest  and  surest  and  quickest  way  of  put- 
ting a stop  to  all  that  nonsense.  All  this,  how- 
ever, he  could  think  over  more  safely  in  his  own 
quarters.  So  he  stole  softly  to  the  window,  and, 
catching  the  end  of  the  leathern  thong,  regained 
his  own  chamber  and  drew  in  the  lasso. 

It  needs  only  a little  jealousy  to  set  a man  on 
who  is  doubtful  in  love  or  wooing,  or  to  make 
him  take  hold  of  his  courting  in  earnest.  As 
soon  as,  Dick  had  satisfied  himself  that  the  young 
schoolmaster  was  his  rival  in  Elsie’s  good  graces, 
his  whole  thoughts  concentrated  themselves  more 
than  ever  on  accomplishing  his  great  design  of 
securing  her  for  himself.  There  was  no  time  to 
be  lost.  He  must  come  into  closer  relations  with 
her,  so  as  to  withdraw  her  thoughts  from  this  fel- 
low, and  to  find  out  more  exactly,  what  was  the 
state  of  her  affections,  if  she  had  any.  So  he 
began  to  court  her  company  again,  to  propose 
riding  with  her,  to  sing  to  her,  to  join  her  when- 
ever she  was  strolling  about  the  grounds,  to  make 
himself  agreeable,  according  to  the  ordinary  un- 
derstanding of  that  phrase,  in  every  way  which 
seemed  to  promise  a chance  for  succeeding  in 
that  amiable  effort. 

The  girl  treated  him  more  capriciously  than 
ever.  She  would  be  sullen  and  silent,  or  she 
would  draw  back  fiercely  at  some  harmless  word 
or  gesture,  or  she  would  look  at  him  with  hei 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


49 


eyes  narrowed  in  such  a strange  way  and  with 
such  a wicked  light  in  them  that  Dick  swore  to 
himself  they  were  too  much  for  him,  and  would 
leave  her  for  the  moment.  Yet  she  tolerated  him, 
almost  as  a matter  of  necessity,  and  sometimes 
seemed  to  take  a kind  of  pleasure  in  trying  her 
power  upon  him.  This  he  soon  found  out,  and 
humored  her  in  the  fancy  that  she  could  exercise 
a kind  of  fascination  over  him,  — though  there 
were  times  in  which  he  actually  felt  an  influence 
he  could  not  understand,  an  effect  of  some  pecul- 
iar expression  about  her.  perhaps,  but  still  cen- 
tring in  those  diamond  eyes  of  hers  which  it 
made  one  feel  so  curiously  to  look  into. 

Whether  Elsie  saw  into  his  object  or  not  was 
more  than  he  could  tell.  His  idea  was,  after 
having  conciliated  the  good-will  of  all  about  her 
as  far  as  possible,  to  make  himself  first  a habit 
and  then  a necessity  with  the  girl, — not  to  spring 
any  trap  of  a declaration  upon  her  until  tolerance 
had  grown  into  such  a degree  of  inclination  as 
her  nature  was  like  to  admit.  He  had  succeeded 
in  the  first  part  of  his  plan.  He  was  at  liberty  to 
prolong  his  visit  at  his  own  pleasure.  This  was 
not  strange ; these  three  persons,  Dudley  Venner, 
his  daughter,  and  his  nephew,  represented  all  that 
remained  of  an  old  and  honorable  family.  Had 
Elsie  been  like  other  girls,  her  father  might  have 
been  less  willing  to  entertain  a young  fellow  like 
Dick  as  an  inmate  ; but  he  had  long  outgrown  all 
the  slighter  apprehensions  which  he  might  have 

VOL.  II.  4 


50 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


had  in  common  with  all  parents,  and  followed 
rafher  than  led  the  imperious  instincts  of  his 
daughter.  It  was  not  a question  of  sentiment, 
but  of  life  and  death,  or  more  than  that,  — some 
dark  ending,  perhaps,  which  would  close  the  his- 
tory of  his  race  with  disaster  and  evil  report  upon 
the  lips  of  all  coming  generations. 

As  to  the  thought  of  his  nephew’s  making  love 
to  his  daughter,  it  had  almost  passed  from  his 
mind.  He  had  been  so  long  in  the  habit  of  look- 
ing at  Elsie  as  outside  of  all  common  influences 
and  exceptional  in  the  law  of  her  nature,  that  it 
was  difficult  for  him  to  think  of  her  as  a girl  to 
be  fallen  in  love  with.  Many  persons  are  sur- 
prised, when  others  court  their  female  relatives ; 
they  know  them  as  good  young  or  old  women 
enough,  — aunts,  sisters,  nieces,  daughters,  what- 
ever they  may  be,  — but  never  think  of  anybody’s 
falling  in  love  with  them,  any  more  than  of  their 
being  struck  by  lightning.  But  in  this  case  there 
were  special  reasons,  in  addition  to  the  common 
family  delusion, — reasons  which  seemed  to  make 
it  impossible  that  she  should  attract  a suitor. 
Who  would  dare  to  marry  Elsie  ? No,  let  her 
have  the  pleasure,  if  it  was  one,  at  any  rate  the 
wholesome  excitement,  of  companionship  ; it 
might  save  her  from  lapsing  into  melancholy  or 
a worse  form  of  madness.  Dudley  Venner  had 
a kind  of  superstition,  too,  that,  if  Elsie  could 
only  outlive  three  septenaries,  twenty-one  years, 
so  that,  according  to  the  prevalent  idea,  her  whole 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


51 


frame  would  have  been  thrice  made  over,  count- 
ing from  her  birth,  she  would  revert  to  the  natural 
standard  of  health  of  mind  and  feelings  from 
which  she  had  been  so  long  perverted.  The 
thought  of  any  other  motive  than  love  being 
sufficient  to  induce  Richard  to  become  her  suitor 
had  not  occurred  to  him.  He  had  married  early, 
at  that  happy  period  when  interested  motives  are 
least  apt  to  influence  the  choice  ; and  his  single 
idea  of  marriage  was,  that  it  was  the  union  of 
persons  naturally  drawn  towards  each  other  by 
some  mutual  attraction.  Very  simple,  perhaps  ; 
but  he  had  lived  lonely  for  many  years  since  his 
wife’s  death,  and  judged  the  hearts  of  others, 
most  of  all  of  his  brother’s  son,  by  his  own.  He 
had  often  thought  whether,  in  case  of  Elsie’s  dy- 
ing or  being  necessarily  doomed  to  seclusion,  he 
might  not  adopt  this  nephew  and  make  him  his 
heir;  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  Richard 
might  wish  to  become  his  son-in-law  for  the  sake 
of  his  property. 

It  is  very  easy  to  criticise  other  people’s  modes 
of  dealing  with  their  children.  Outside  observers 
see  results ; parents  see  processes.  They  notice 
the  trivial  movements  and  accents  which  betray 
the  blood  of  this  or  that  ancestor ; they  can  de- 
tect the  irrepressible  movement  of  hereditary  im- 
pulse in  looks  and  acts  which  mean  nothing  to 
the  common  observer.  To  be  a parent  is  almost 
to  be  a fatalist.  This  boy  sits  with  legs  crossed, 
just  as  his  uncle  used  to  whom  he  never  saw ; 


52 


ELSIE  VENNER, 


his  grandfathers  both  died  before  he  was  born, 
but  he  has  the  movement  of  the  eyebrows  which 
we  remember  in  one  of  them,  and  the  gusty  tem- 
per of  the  other. 

These  are  things  parents  can  see,  and  which 
they  must  take  account  of  in  education,  but 
which  few  except  parents  can  be  expected  to 
really  understand.  Here  and  there  a sagacious 
person,  old,  or  of  middle  age,  who  has  triangu- 
lated a race,  that  is,  taken  three  or  more  observa- 
tions from  the  several  standing-places  of  three 
different  generations,  can  tell  pretty  nearly  the 
range  of  possibilities  and  the  limitations  of  a 
child,  actual  or  potential,  of  a given  stock, — 
errors  excepted  always,  because  children  of  the 
same  stock  are  not  bred  just  alike,  because  the 
traits  of  some  less  known  ancestor  are  liable  to 
break  out  at  any  time,  and  because  each  human 
being  has,  after  all,  a small  fraction  of  individu- 
ality about  him  which  gives  him  a flavor,  so  that 
he  is  distinguishable  from  others  by  his  friends 
or  in  a court  of  justice,  and  which  occasionally 
makes  a genius  or  a saint  or  a criminal  of  him. 
It  is  well  that  young  persons  cannot  read  these 
fatal  oracles  of  Nature.  Blind  impulse  is  her 
highest  wisdom,  after  all.  We  make  our  great 
jump,  and  then  she  takes  the  bandage  off  our 
eyes.  That  is  the  way  the  broad  sea-level  of 
average  is  maintained,  and  the  physiological 
democracy  is  enabled  to  fight  against  the  prin- 
ciple of  selection  which  would  disinherit  all  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


53 


weaker  children.  The  magnificent  constituency 
of  mediocrities  of  which  the  world  is  made  up, 
— the  people  without  biographies,  whose  lives 
have  made  a clear  solution  in  the  fluid"  men- 
struum of  time,  instead  of  being  precipitated  in 

the  opaque  sediment  of  history 

But  this  is  a narrative,  and  not  a disquisition. 


54 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FROM  WITHOUT  AND  FROM  WITHIN. 

There  were  not  wanting  people  who  accused 
Dudley  Yenner  of  weakness  and  bad  judgment 
in  his  treatment  of  his  daughter.  Some  were  of 
opinion  that  the  great  mistake  was  in  not  “ break- 
ing her  will  ” when  she  was  a little  child.  There 
was  nothing  the  matter  with  her,  they  said,  but 
that  she  had  been  spoiled  by  indulgence.  If  they 
had  had  the  charge  of  her,  they’d  have  brought 
her  down.  She’d  got  the  upperhand  of  her  fa- 
ther now ; but  if  he’d  only  taken  hold  of  her  in 
season ! There  are  people  who  think  that  every- 
thing may  be  done,  if  the  doer,  be  he  educator  or 
physician,  be  only  called  u in  season.”  No  doubt, 
— but  in  season  would  often  be  a hundred  or 
two  years  before  the  child  was  born ; and  people 
never  send  so  early  as  that. 

The  father  of  Elsie  Venner  knew  his  duties 
and  his  difficulties  too  well  to  trouble  himself 
about  anything  others  might  think  or  say.  So 
soon  as  he  found  that  he  could  not  govern  his 
child,  he  gave  his  life  up  to  following  her  and 
protecting  her  as  far  as  he  could.  It  was  a stern 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


55 


and  terrible  trial  for  a man  of  acute  sensibility, 
and  not  without  force  of  intellect  and  will,  and 
the  manly  ambition  for  himself  and  his  family- 
name  which  belonged  to  his  endowments  and 
his  position.  Passive  endurance  is  the  hardest 
trial  to  persons  of  such  a nature. 

What  made  it  still  more  a long  martyrdom 
was  the  necessity  for  bearing  his  cross  in  utter 
loneliness.  He  could  not  tell  his  griefs.  He 
could  not  talk  of  them  even  with  those  who 
knew  their  secret  spring.  His  minister  had  the 
unsympathetic  nature  which  is  common  in  the 
meaner  sort  of  devotees,  — persons  who  mistake 
spiritual  selfishness  for  sanctity,  and  grab  at  the 
infinite  prize  of  the  great  Future  and  Elsewhere 
with  the  egotism  they  excommunicate  in  its  hardly 
more  odious  forms  of  avarice  and  self-indulgence. 
How  could  he  speak  with  the  old  physician  and 
the  old  black  woman  about  a sorrow  and  a terror 
which  but  to  name  was  to  strike  dumb  the  lips  of 
Consolation  ? 

In  the  dawn  of  his  manhood  he  had  found  that 
second  consciousness  for  which  young  men  and 
young  women  go  about  looking  into  each  other’s 
faces,  with  their  sweet,  artless  aim  playing  in 
every  feature,  and  making  them  beautiful  to 
each  other,  as  to  all  of  us.  He  had  found  his 
other  self  early,  before  he  had  grown  weary  in  the 
search  and  wasted  his  freshness  in  vain  longings : 
the  lot  of  many,  perhaps  we.  may  say  of  most, 
who  infringe  the  patent  of  our  social  order  by  in- 


56 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


trading  themselves  into  a life  already  upon  half- 
allowance of  the  necessary  luxuries  of  existence. 
The  life  he  had  led  for  a brief  space  was  not  only 
beautiful  in  outward  circumstance,  as  old  Sophy 
had  described  it  to  the  Reverend  Doctor.  It  was 
that  delicious  process  of  the  tuning  of  two  souls 
to  each  other,  string  by  string,  not  without  little 
half-pleasing  discords  now  and  then  when  some 
chord  in  one  or  the  other  proves  to  be  over- 
strained or  over-lax,  but  always  approaching 
nearer  and  nearer  to  harmony,  until  they  be- 
come at  last  as  two  instruments  with  a single 
voice.  Something  more  than  a year  of  this  bliss- 
ful doubled  consciousness  had  passed  over  him 
when  he  found  himself  once  more  alone,  — alone, 
save  for  the  little  diamond-eyed  child  lying  in  the 
old  black  woman’s  arms,  with  the  coral  necklace 
round  her  throat  and  the  rattle  in  her  hand. 

He  would  not  die  by  his  own  act.  It  was  not 
the  way  in  his  family.  There  may  have  been 
other,  perhaps  better  reasons,  but  this  was 
enough ; he  did  not  come  of  suicidal  stock. 
He  must  live  for  this  child’s  sake,  at  any  rate ; 
and  yet,  — oh,  yet,  who  could  tell  with  what 
thoughts  he  looked  upon  her  ? Sometimes  her 
little  features  would  look  placid,  and  something 
like  a smile  would  steal  over  them ; then  all  his 
tender  feelings  would  rush  up  into  his  eyes,  and 
he  would  put  his  arms  out  to  take  her  from  the 
old  woman,  — but  all  at  once  her  eyes  would 
narrow  *md  she  would  throw  her  head  back ; 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


57 


and  a shudder  would  seize  him  as  he  stooped 
over  his  child,  — he  could  not  look  upon  her,  — 
he  could  not  touch  his  lips  to  her  cheek;  nay, 
there  would  sometimes  come  into  his  soul  such 
frightful  suggestions  that  he  would  hurry  from 
the  room  lest  the  hinted  thought  should  become 
a momentary  madness  and  he  should  lift  his 
hand  against  the  hapless  infant  which  owed  him 
life. 

In  those  miserable  days  he  used  to  wander  all 
over  The  Mountain  in  his  restless  endeavor  to 
seek  some  relief  for  inward  suffering  in  outward 
action.  He  had  no  thought  of  throwing  himself 
from  the  summit  of  any  of  the  broken  cliffs,  but 
he  clambered  over  them  recklessly,  as  having  no 
particular  care  for  his  life.  Sometimes  he  would 
go  into  the  accursed  district  where  the  venomous 
reptiles  were  always  to  be  dreaded,  and  court 
their  worst  haunts,  and  kill  all  he  could  come 
near  with  a kind  of  blind  fury  which  was  strange 
in  a person  of  his  gentle  nature. 

One  overhanging  cliff  was  a favorite  haunt 
of  his.  It  frowned  upon  his  home  beneath  in 
a very  menacing  way;  he  noticed  slight  seams 
and  fissures  that  looked  ominous  ; — what  would 
happen,  if  it  broke  off  some  time  or  other  and 
came  crashing  down  on  the  fields  and  roofs 
below  ? He  thought  of  such  a possible  catas- 
trophe with  a singular  indifference,  in  fact  with 
a feeling  almost  like  pleasure.  It  would  be  such 
a swift  and  thorough  solution  of  this  great  prob- 


58 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


lem  of  life  he  was  working  out  in  ever-recurring 
daily  anguish ! The  remote  possibility  of  such 
a catastrophe  had  frightened  some  timid  dwellers 
beneath  The  Mountain  to  other  places  of  resi- 
dence ; here  the  danger  was  most  imminent,  and 
yet  he  loved  to  dwell  upon  the  chances  of  its 
occurrence.  Danger  is  often  the  best  counter - 
irritant  in  cases  of  mental  suffering;  he  found 
a solace  in  careless  exposure  of  his  life,  and 
learned  to  endure  the  trials  of  each  day  better 
by  dwelling  in  imagination  on  the  possibility 
that  it  might  be  the  last  for  him  and  the  home 
that  was  his. 

Time,  the  great  consoler,  helped  these  influ- 
ences, and  he  gradually  fell  into  more  easy  and 
less  dangerous  habits  of  life.  He  ceased  from 
his  more  perilous  rambles.  He  thought  less  of 
the  danger  from  the  great  overhanging  rocks  and 
forests  ; they  had  hung  there  for  centuries ; it  was 
not  very  likely  they  would  crash  or  slide  in  his 
time.  He  became  accustomed  to  all  Elsie’s 
strange  looks  and  ways.  Old  Sophy  dressed 
her  with  ruffles  round  her  neck,  and  hunted  up 
the  red  coral  branch  with  silver  bells  which  the 
little  toothless  Dudleys  had  bitten  upon  for  a 
hundred  years.  By  an  infinite  effort,  her  father 
forced  himself  to  become  the  companion  of  this 
child,  for  whom  he  had  such  a mingled  feeling, 
but  whose  presence  was  always  a trial  to  him 
and  often  a terror. 

At  a cost  which  no  human  being  could  esti- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


59 


mate,  he  had  done  his  duty,  and  in  some  degree 
reaped  his  reward.  Elsie  grew  up  with  a kind  of 
filial  feeling  for  him,  such  as  her  nature  was  capa- 
ble of.  She  never  would  obey  him  ; that  was  not 
to  be  looked  for.  Commands,  threats,  punish- 
ments, were  ont  of  the  question  with  her ; the 
mere  physical  effects  of  crossing  her  will  betrayed 
themselves  in  such  changes  of  expression  and 
manner  that  it  would  have  been  senseless  to  at- 
tempt to  govern  her  in  any  such  way.  Leaving 
her  mainly  to  herself,  she  could  be  to  some  extent 
indirectly  influenced,  — not  otherwise.  She  called 
her  father  u Dudley,”  as  if  he  had  been  her  brother. 
She  ordered  everybody  and  would  be  ordered  by 
none. 

Who  could  know  all  these  things,  except  the 
few  people  of  the  household?  What  wonder, 
therefore,  that  ignorant  and  shallow  persons  laid 
the  blame  on  her  father  of  those  peculiarities 
which  were  freely  talked  about,  — of  those  darker 
tendencies  which  were  hinted  of  in  whispers  ? 
To  all  this  talk,  so  far  as  it  reached  him,,  he  was 
supremely  indifferent,  not  only  with  the  indiffer- 
ence which  all  gentlemen  feel  to  the  gossip  of 
their  inferiors,  but  with  a charitable  calmness 
which  did  not  wonder  or  blame.  He  knew  that 
his  position  was  not  simply  a difficult,  but  an  im- 
possible one,  and  schooled  himself  to  bear  his  des- 
tiny as  well  as  he  might,  and  report  himself  only 
at  Headquarters. 

He  had  grown  gentle  under  this  discipline. 


60 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


His  hair  was  just  beginning  to  be  touched  with 
silver,  and  his  expression  was  that  of  habitual 
sadness  and  anxiety.  He  had  no  counsellor,  as 
we  have  seen,  to  turn  to,  who  did  not  know  either 
too  much  or  too  little.  He  had  no  heart  to  rest 
upon  and  into  which  he  might  unburden  himself 
of  the  secrets  and  the  sorrows  that  were  aching  in 
his  own  breast.  Yet  he  had  not  allowed  himself 
to  run  to  waste  in  the  long  time  since  he  was  left 
alone  to  his  trials  and  fears.  He  had  resisted  the 
seductions  which  always  beset  solitary  men  with 
restless  brains  overwrought  by  depressing  agen- 
cies. He  disguised  no  misery  to  himself  with  the 
lying  delusion  of  wine.  He  sought  no  sleep  from 
narcotics,  though  he  lay  with  throbbing,  wide-open 
eyeballs  through  all  the  weary  hours  of  the  night. 

It  was  understood  between  Dudley  Venner  and 
old  Doctor  Kittredge  that  Elsie  was  a subject  of 
occasional  medical  observation,  on  account  of  cer- 
tain mental  peculiarities  which  might  end  in  a 
permanent  affection  of  her  reason.  Beyond  this 
nothing,  was  said,  whatever  may  have  been  in  the 
mind  of  either.  But  Dudley  Venner  had  studied 
Elsie’s  case  in  the  light  of  all  the  books  he  could 
find  which  might  do  anything  towards  explaining 
it.  As  in  all  cases  where  men  meddle  with  med- 
ical science  for  a special  purpose,  having  no  pre- 
vious acquaintance  with  it,  his  imagination  found 
what  it  wanted  in  the  books  he  read,  and  adjusted 
it  to  the  facts  before  him.  So  it  was  he  came  to 
cherish  those  two  fancies  before  alluded  to  : that 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


61 


the  ominous  birth-mark  she  had  carried  from  in- 
fancy might  fade  and  become  obliterated,  and  that 
the  age  of  complete  maturity  might  be  signalized 
by  an  entire  change  in  her  physical  and  mental 
state.  He  held  these  vague  hopes  as  all  of  us 
nurse  our  only  half-believed  illusions.  Not  for 
the  world  would  he  have  questioned  his  sagacious 
old  medical  friend  as  to  the  probability  or  possi- 
bility of  their  being  true.  We  are  very  shy  of 
asking  questions  of  those  who  know  enough. to 
destroy  with  one  word  the  hopes  we  live  on. 

In  this  life  of  comparative  seclusion  to  which 
the  father  had  doomed  himself  for  the  sake  of  his 
child,  he  had  found  time  for  large  and  varied 
reading.  The  learned  Judge  Thornton  confessed 
himself  surprised  at  the  extent  of  Dudley  Ven- 
ner’s  information.  Doctor  Kittredge  found  that 
he  was  in  advance  of  him  in  the  knowledge  of 
recent  physiological  discoveries.  He  had  taken 
pains  to  become  acquainted  with  agricultural 
chemistry  ; and  the  neighboring  farmers  owed  him 
some  useful  hints  about  the  management  of  their 
land.  He  renewed  his  old  acquaintance  with  the 
classic  authors.  He  loved  to  warm  his  pulses 
with  Homer  and  calm  them  down  with  Horace. 
He  received  all  manner  of  new  books  and  period- 
icals, and  gradually  gained  an  interest  in  the 
events  of  the  passing  time.  Yet  he  remained  al- 
most a hermit,  not  absolutely  refusing  to  see  his 
neighbors,  nor  ever  churlish  towards  them,  but  on 
the  other  hand  not  cultivating  any  intimate  rela- 
tions with  them. 


62 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


He  had  retired  from  the  world  a young  man, 
little  more  than  a youth,  indeed,  with  sentiments 
and  aspirations  all  of  them  suddenly  extinguished. 
The  first  had  bequeathed  him  a single  huge  sor- 
row, the  second  a single  trying  duty.  In  due 
time  the  anguish  had  lost  something  of  its  poig- 
nancy, the  light  of  earlier  and  happier  memories 
had  begun  to  struggle  with  and  to  soften  its  thick 
darkness,  and  even  that  duty  which  he  had  con- 
fronted with  such  an  effort  had  become  an  endur- 
able habit. 

At  a period  of  life  when  many  have  been  living 
on  the  capital  of  their  acquired  knowledge  and 
their  youthful  stock  of  sensibilities  until  their 
intellects  are  really  shallower  and  their  hearts 
emptier  than  they  were  at  twenty,  Dudley  Ven- 
ner  was  stronger  in  thought  and  tenderer  in  soul 
than  in  the  first  freshness  of  his  youth,  when  he 
counted  but  half  his  present  years.  He  had  en- 
tered that  period  which  marks  the  decline  of  men 
who  have  ceased  growing  in  knowledge  and 
strength  : from  forty  to  fifty  a man  must  move 
upward,  or  the  natural  falling  off  in  the  vigor  of 
life  will  carry  him  rapidly  downward.  At . this 
time  his  inward  nature  was  richer  and  deeper 
than  in  any  earlier  period  of  his  life.  If  he  could 
only  be  summoned  to  action,  he  was  capable  of 
noble  service.  If  his  sympathies  could  only  find 
an  outlet,  he  was  never  so  capable  of  love  as 
now ; for  his  natural  affections  had  been  gather- 
ing in  the  course  of  all  these  years,  and  the  traces 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


63 


of  that  ineffaceable  calamity  of  his  life  were  soft- 
ened and  partially  hidden  by  new  growths  of 
thought  and  feeling,  as  the  wreck  left  by  a moun- 
tain-slide is  covered  over  by  the  gentle  intrusion 
of  the  soft-stemmed  herbs  which  will  prepare  it 
for  the  stronger  vegetation  that  will  bring  it 
once  more  into  harmony  with  the  peaceful  slopes 
around  it. 

Perhaps  Dudley  Venner  had  not  gained  so 
much  in  worldly  wisdom  as  if  he  had  been  more 
in  society  and  less  in  his  study.  The  indulgence 
with  which  he  treated  his  nephew  was,  no  doubt, 
imprudent.  A man  more  in  the  habit  of  dealing 
with  men  would  have  been  more  guarded  with  a 
person  with  Dick’s  questionable  story  and  unques- 
tionable physiognomy.  But  he  was  singularly 
unsuspicious,  and  his  natural  kindness  was  an 
additional  motive  to  the  wish  for  introducing 
some  variety  into  the  routine  of  Elsie’s  life. 

If  Dudley  Venner  did  not  know  just  what  he 
wanted  at  this  period  of  his  life,  there  were  a 
great  many  people  in  the  town  of  Rockland  who 
thought  they  did  know.  He  had  been  a widower 
long  enough,  — nigh  twenty  year,  wa’n’t  it  ? 
He’d  been  aout  to  Spraowles’s  party,  — ■.  there 
wa’n’t  anything  to  hender  him  why  he  shouldn’t 
stir  raound  l’k  other  folks.  What  was  the  reason 
he  didn’t  go  abaout  to  taown-meetin’s  ’n’  Sahbath- 
meetin’s,  ’n’  lyceums,  ’n’  school-’xaminations,  ’n’ 
s’prise-parties,  ’n’  funerals,  — and  other  entertain- 
ments where  the  still-faced  two-story  folks  were  in 


64 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  habit  of  looking  round  to  see  if  any  of  the 
mansion-house  gentry  were  present?  — Fac’  was, 
he  was  livin’  too  lonesome  daown  there  at  the 
mansion-haouse.  Why  shouldn’t  he  make  up  to 
the  Jedge’s  daughter  ? She  was  genteel  enough 
for  him  and — let’s  see,  haow  old  was  she? 
Seven-’n’-twenty,  — no,  six-’n’ -twenty,  — born  the 
same  year  we  buried  aour  little  Anny  Mari’. 

There  was  no  possible  objection  to  this  arrange- 
ment, if  the  parties  interested  had  seen  fit  to 
make  it  or  even  to  think  of  it.  But  “ Portia,”  as 
some  of  the  mansion-house  people  called  her,  did 
not  happen  to  awaken  the  elective  affinities  of  the 
lonely  widower.  He  met  her  once  in  a while,  and 
said  to  himself  that  she  was  a good  specimen  of 
the  grand  style  of  woman ; and  then  the  image 
came  back  to  him  of  a woman  not  quite  so  large, 
not  quite  so  imperial  in  her  port,  not  quite  so  in- 
cisive in  her  speech,  not  quite  so  judicial  in  her 
opinions,  but  with  two  or  three  more  joints  in  her 
frame,  and  two  or  three  soft  inflections  in  her 
voice,  which  for  some  absurd  reason  or  other  drew 
him  to  her  side  and  so  bewitched  him  that  he  told 
her  half  his  secrets  and  looked  into  her  eyes  all 
that  he  could  not  tell,  in  less  time  than  it  would 
have  taken  him  to  discuss  the  champion  paper  of 
the  last  Quarterly  with  the  admirable  “ Portia.” 
Heu , quanto  minus  ! How  much  more  was  that 
lost  image  to  him  than  all  it  left  on  earth  ! 

The  study  of  love  is  very  much  like  that  of 
meteorology.  We  know  that  just  about  so  much 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


65 


rain  will  fall  in  a season  ; but  on  what  particular 
day  it  will  shower  is  more  than  we  can  tell.  We 
know  that  just  about  so  much  love  will  be  made 
every  year  in  a given  population  ; but  who  will 
rain  his  young  affections  upon  the  heart  of  whom 
is  not  known  except  to  the  astrologers  and  for- 
tune-tellers. And  why  rain  falls  as  it  does,  and 
why  love  is  made  just  as  it  is,  are  equally  puzzling 
questions. 

The  woman  a man  loves  is  always  his  own 
daughter,  far  more  his  daughter  than  the  female 
children  born  to  him  by  the  common  law  of  life. 
It  is  not  the  outside  woman,  who  takes  his  name, 
that  he  loves : before  her  image  has  reached  the 
centre  of  his  consciousness,  it  has  passed  through 
fifty  many-layered  nerve-strainers,  been  churned 
over  by  ten  thousand  pulse-beats,  and  reacted 
upon  by  millions  of  lateral  impulses  which  bandy 
it  about  through  the  mental  spaces  as  a reflection 
is  sent  back  and  forward  in  a saloon  lined  with 
mirrors.  With  this  altered  image  of  the  woman 
before  him,  his  preexisting  ideal  becomes  blended. 
The  object  of  his  love  is  in  part  the  offspring  of 
her  legal  parents,  but  more  of  her  lover’s  brain. 
The  difference  between  the  real  and  the  ideal  ob- 
jects of  love  must  not  exceed  a fixed  maximum. 
The  heart’s  vision  cannot  unite  them  stereoscopi- 
cally  into  a single  image,  if  the  divergence  pass- 
es certain  limits.  A formidable  analogy,  much 
in  the  nature  of  a proof,  with  very  serious  con- 
sequences, which  moralists  and  match-makers 

VOL.  II.  5 


6^- 


66 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


would  do  well  to  remember ! Double  vision 
with  the  eyes  of  the  heart  is  a dangerous  phys- 
iological state,  and  may  lead  to  missteps  and 
serious  falls. 

Whether  Dudley  Venner  would  ever  find  a 
breathing  image  near  enough  to  his  ideal  one,  to 
fill  the  desolate  chamber  of  his  heart,  or  not,  was 
very  doubtful.  Some  gracious  and  gentle  wom- 
an, whose  influence  would  steal  upon  him  as  the 
first  low  words  of  prayer  after  that  interval  of 
silent  mental  supplication  known  to  one  of  our 
simpler  forms  of  public  worship,  gliding  into  his 
consciousness  without  hurting  its  old  griefs,  her- 
self knowing  the  chastening  of  sorrow,  and  sub- 
dued into  sweet  acquiescence  with  the  Divine  will, 
— some  such  woman  as  this,  if  Heaven  should 
send  him  such,  might  call  him  back  to  the  world 
of  happiness,  from  which  he  seemed  forever  ex- 
iled. He  could  never  again  be  the  young  lover 
who  walked  through  the  garden-alleys  all  red  with 
roses  in  the  old  dead  and  buried  June  of  long  ago. 
He  could  never  forget  the  bride  of  his  youth, 
whose  image,  growing  phantom-like  with  the 
lapse  of  years,  hovered  over  him  like  a dream 
while  waking  and  like  a reality  in  dreams.  But 
if  it  might  be  in  God’s  good  providence  that  this 
desolate  life  should  come  under  the  influence  of 
human  affections  once  more,  what  an  ecstasy  of 
renewed  existence  was  in  store  for  him ! His  life 
had  not  all  been  buried  under  that  narrow  ridge 
of  turf  with  the  white  stone  at  its  head.  It 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


67 


seemed  so  for  a while ; but  it  was  not  and  could 
not  and  ought  not  to  be  so.  His  first  passion 
had  been  a true  and  pure  one ; there  was  no  spot 
or  stain  upon  it.  With  all  his  grief  there  blended 
no  cruel  recollection  of  any  word  or  look  he 
would  have  wished  to  forget.  All  those  little  dif- 
ferences, such  as  young  married  people  with  any 
individual  flavor  in  their  characters  must  have,  if 
they  are  tolerably  mated,  had  only  added  to  the 
music  of  existence,  as  the  lesser  discords  admitted 
into  some  perfect  symphony,  fitly  resolved,  add 
richness  and  strength  to  the  whole  harmonious 
movement.  It  was  a deep  wound  that  Fate  had 
inflicted  on  him  ; nay,  it  seemed  like  a mortal 
one ; but  the  weapon  was  clean,  and  its  edge  was 
smooth.  Such  wounds  must  heal  with  time  in 
healthy  natures,  whatever  a false  sentiment  may 
say,  by  the  wise  and  beneficent  law  of  our  being. 
The  recollection  of  a deep  and  true  affection  is 
rather  a divine  nourishment  for  a life  to  grow 
strong  upon  than  a poison  to  destroy  it. 

Dudley  Venner’s  habitual  sadness  could  not  be 
laid  wholly  to  his  early  bereavement.  It  was 
partly  the  result  of  the  long  struggle  between  nat- 
ural affection  and  duty,  on  one  side,  and  the  in- 
voluntary tendencies  these  had  to  overcome,  on 
the  other,  — between  hope  and  fear,  so  long  in 
conflict  that  despair  itself  would  have  been  like 
an  anodyne,  and  he  would  have  slept  upon  some 
final  catastrophe  with  the  heavy  sleep  of  a bank- 
rupt after  his  failure  is  proclaimed.  Alas  ! some 


68 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


new  affection  might  perhaps  rekindle  the  fires  of 
youth  in  his  heart;  but  what  power  could  calm 
that  haggard  terror  of  the  parent  which  rose  with 
every  morning’s  sun  and  watched  with  every  even- 
ing star,  — what  power  save  alone  that  of  him 
who  comes  bearing  the  inverted  torch,  and  leav- 
ing after  him  only  the  ashes  printed  with  his  foot- 
steps ? 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


69 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  WIDOW  ROWENS  GIVES  A TEA-PARTY. 

There  was  a good  deal  of  interest  felt,  as 
has  been  said,  in  the  lonely  condition  of  Dud- 
ley Venner  in  that  fine  mansion-house  of  his,  and 
with  that  strange  daughter,  who  would  never  be 
married,  as  many  people  thought,  in  spite  of  all 
the  stories.  The  feelings  expressed  by  the  good 
folks  who  dated  from  the  time  when  they  “buried 
aour  little  Anny  Mari’,”  and  others  of  that  home- 
spun  stripe,  were  founded  in  reason,  after  all. 
And  so  it  was  natural  enough  that  they  should 
be  shared  by  various  ladies,  who,  having  conju- 
gated the  verb  to  live  as  far  as  the  preterpluper- 
fect  tense,  were  ready  to  change  one  of  its  vowels 
and  begin  with  it  in  the  present  indicative.  Un- 
fortunately, there  was  very  little  chance  of  show- 
ing sympathy  in  its  active  form  for  a gentleman 
who  kept  himself  so  much  out  of  the  way  as  the 
master  of  the  Dudley  Mansion. 

Various  attempts  had  been  made,  from  time  to 
time,  of  late  years,  to  get  him  out  of  his  study, 
which  had,  for  the  most  part,  proved  failures.  It 
was  a surprise,  therefore,  when  he  was  seen  at 


70 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


the  Great  Party  at  the  Colonel’s.  But  it  was  an 
encouragement  to  try  him  again,  and  the  conse- 
quence had  been  that  he  had  received  a number 
of  notes  inviting  him  to  various  smaller  enter- 
tainments, which,  as  neither  he  nor  Elsie  had  any 
fancy  for  them,  he  had  politely  declined. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  he  received 
an  invitation  to  take  tea  sociably , with  a few 
friends , at  Hyacinth  Cottage,  the  residence  of 
the  Widow  Rowens,  relict  of  the  late  Beeri 
Rowens,  Esquire,  better  known  as  Major  Row- 
ens. Major  Rowens  was  at  the  time  of  his 
decease  a promising  officer  in  the  militia,  in 
the  direct  line  of  promotion,  as  his  waistband 
was  getting  tighter  every  year;  and,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  the  militia-officer  who  splits  off 
most  buttons  and  fills  the  largest  sword-belt 
stands  the  best  chance  of  rising,  or,  perhaps  we 
might  say,  spreading,  to  be  General. 

Major  Rowens  united  in  his  person  certain 
other  traits  which  help  a man  to  eminence  in 
the  branch  of  public  service  referred  to.  He  ran 
to  high  colors,  to  wide  whiskers,  to  open  pores ; 
he  had  the  saddle-leather  skin  common  in  Eng- 
lishmen, rarer  in  Americans,  — never  found  in 
the  Brahmin  caste,  oftener  in  the  military  and 
the  commodores : observing  people  know  what 
is  meant ; blow  the  seed-arrows  from  the  white- 
kid-looking  button  which  holds  them  on  a dan- 
delion-stalk,  and  the  pricked-pincushion  surface 
shows  you  what  to  look  for.  He  had  the  loud, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


71 


gruff  voice  which  implies  the  right  to  com- 
mand. He  had  the  thick  hand,  stubbed  fin- 
gers, with  bristled  pads  between  their  joints, 
square,  broad  thumb-nails,  and  sturdy  limbs, 
which  mark  a constitution  made  to  use  in 
rough  out-door  work.  He  had  the  never-failing 
predilection  for  showy  switch-tailed  horses  that 
step  high,  and  sidle  about,  and  act  as  if  they 
were  going  to  do  something  fearful  the  next  min- 
ute, in  the  face  of  awed  and  admiring  multi- 
tudes gathered  at  mighty  musters  or  imposing 
cattle-shows.  He  had  no  objection,  either,  to 
holding  the  reins  in  a wagon  behind  another 
kind  of  horse,  — a slouching,  listless  beast,  with 
a strong  slant  to  his  shoulder  and  a notable 
depth  to  his  quarter  and  an  emphatic  angle  at 
the  hock,  who  commonly  walked  or  lounged 
along  in  a lazy  trot  of  five  or  six  miles  an  hour ; 
but,  if  a lively  colt  happened  to  come  rattling 
up  alongside,  or  a brandy-faced  old  horse-jockey 
took  the  road  to  show  off  a fast  nag,  and  threw 
his  dust  into  the  Major’s  face,  would  pick  his 
legs  up  all  at  once,  and  straighten  his  body  out, 
and  swing  off  into  a three-minute  gait,  in  a way 
that  “ Old  Blue  ” himself  need  not  have  been 
ashamed  of. 

For  some  reason  which  must  be  left  to  the 
next  generation  of  professors  to  find  out,  the  men 
who  are  knowing  in  horse-flesh  have  an  eye  also 
for, let  a long  dash  separate  the  brute  crea- 

tion from  the  angelic  being  now  to  be  named, — 


72 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


for  lovely  woman.  Of  this  fact  there  can  be 
no  possible  doubt;  and  therefore  you  shall  no- 
tice, that,  if  a fast  horse  trots  before  two,  one 
of  the  twain  is  apt  to  be  a pretty  bit  of  mulieb- 
rity, with  shapes  to  her,  and  eyes  flying  about 
in  all  directions. 

Major  Rowens,  at  that  time  Lieutenant  of 
the  Rockland  Fusileers,  had  driven  and  “traded  ” 
horses  not  a few  before  he  turned  his  acquired 
skill  as  a judge  of  physical  advantages  in  another 
direction.  He  knew  a neat,  snug  hoof,  a deli- 
cate pastern,  a broad  haunch,  a deep  chest,  a 
close  ribbed-up  barrel,  as  well  as  any  other  man 
in  the  town.  He  was  not  to  be  taken  in  by 
your  thick-jointed,  heavy-headed  cattle,  without 
any  go  to  them,  that  suit  a country-parson,  nor 
yet  by  the  “ gaanted-up,”  long-legged  animals, 
with  all  their  constitutions  bred  out  of  them, 
such  as  rich  greenhorns  buy  and  cover  up  with 
their  plated  trappings. 

Whether  his  equine  experience  was  of  any  use 
to  him  in  the  selection  of  the  mate  with  whom 
he  was  to  go  in  double  harness  so  long  as  they 
both  should  live,  we  need  not  stop  to  question. 
At  any  rate,  nobody  could  find  fault  with  the 
points  of  Miss  Marilla  Van  Deusen,  to  whom  he 
offered  the  privilege  of  becoming  Mrs.  Rowens. 
The  Van  must  have  been  crossed  out  of  her 
blood,  for  she  was  an  out-and-out  brunette, 
with  hair  and  eyes  black  enough  for  a Mo- 
hawk’s daughter.  A fine  style  of  woman,  with 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


73 


very  striking  tints  and  outlines,  — an  excellent 
match  for  the  Lieutenant,  except  for  one  thing. 
She  was  marked  by  Nature  for  a widow.  She 
was  evidently  got  up  for  mourning,  and  never 
looked  so  well  as  in  deep  black,  with  jet  orna- 
ments. 

The  man  who  should  dare  to  marry  her  would 
doom  himself ; for  how  could  she  become  the 
widow  she  was  bound  to  be,  unless  he  would  re- 
tire and  give  her  a chance  ? The  Lieutenant 
lived,  however,  as  we  have  seen,  to  become  Cap- 
tain and  then  Major,  with  prospects  of  further 
advancement.  But  Mrs.  Bowens  often  said  she 
should  never  look  well  in  colors.  At  last  her  des- 
tiny fulfilled  itself,  and  the  justice  of  Nature  was 
vindicated.  Major  Rowens  got  overheated  gallop- 
ing about  the  field  on  the  day  of  the  Great  Mus- 
ter, and  had  a rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  according 
to  the  common  report, — at  any  rate,  something 
which  stopped  him  short  in  his  career  of  expan- 
sion and  promotion,  and  established  Mrs.  Rowens 
in  her  normal  condition  of  widowhood. 

The  Widow  Rowens  was  now  in  the  full 
bloom  of  ornamental  sorrow.  A very  shallow 
crape  bonnet,  frilled  and  froth-like,  allowed  the 
parted  raven  hair  to  show  its  glossy  smooth- 
ness. A jet  pin  heaved  upon  her  bosom  with 
'every  sigh  of  memory,  or  emotion  of  unknown 
origin.  Jet  bracelets  shone  with  every  movement 
of  her  slender  hands,  cased  in  close-fitting  black 
gloves.  Her  sable  dress  was  ridged  with  mani- 


74 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


fold  flounces,  from  beneath  which  a small  foot 
showed  itself  from  time  to  time,  clad  in  the  same 
hue  of  mourning.  Everything  about  her  was 
dark,  except  the  whites  of  her  eyes  and  the 
enamel  of  her  teeth.  The  effect  was  complete. 
Gray’s  Elegy  was  not  a more  perfect  composi- 
tion. 

Much  as  the  Widow  was  pleased  with  the  cos- 
tume belonging  to  her  condition,  she  did  not 
disguise  from  herself  that  under  certain  circum- 
stances she  might  be  willing  to  change  her  name 
again.  Thus,  for  instance,  if  a gentleman  not 
too  far  gone  in  maturity,  of  dignified  exterior, 
with  an  ample  fortune,  and  of  unexceptionable 
character,  should  happen  to  set  his  heart  upon 
her,  and  the  only  way  to  make  him  happy  was  to 
give  up  her  weeds  and  go  into  those  unbecoming 
colors  again  for  his  sake,  — why,  she  felt  that  it 
was  in  her  nature  to  make  the  sacrifice.  By  a 
singular  coincidence  it  happened  that  a gentle- 
man was  now  living  in  Rockland  who  united  in 
himself  all  these  advantages.  Who  he  was,  the 
sagacious  reader  may  very  probably  have  divined. 
Just  to  see  how  it  looked,  one  day,  having  bolted 
her  door,  and  drawn  the  curtains  close,  and 
glanced  under  the  sofa,  and  listened  at  the  key- 
hole to  be  sure  there  was  nobody  in  the  entry,  — 
just  to  see  how  it  looked,  she  had  taken  out  an 
envelope  and  written  on  the  back  of  it  Mrs.  Ma- 
nila Vernier.  It  made  her  head  swim  and  her 
knees  tremble.  What  if  she  should  faint,  or 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


75 

die,  or  have  a stroke  of  palsy,  and  they  should 
break  into  the  room  and  find  that  name  written  ? 
How  she  caught  it  up  and  tore  it  into  little 
shreds,  and  then  could  not  be  easy  until  she  had 
burned  the  small  heap  of  pieces ! But  these  are 
things  which  every  honorable  reader  will  consider 
imparted  in  strict  confidence. 

The  Widow  Rowens,  though  not  of  the  man- 
sion-house set,  was  among  the  most  genteel  of 
the  two-story  circle,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  vis- 
iting some  of  the  great  people.  In  one  of  these 
visits  she  met  a dashing  young  fellow  with  an 
olive  complexion  at  the  house  of  a professional 
gentleman  who  had  married  one  of  the  white 
necks  and  pairs  of  fat  arms  from  a distinguished 
family  before  referred  to.  The  professional  gen- 
tleman himself  was  out,  but  the  lady  introduced 
the  olive-complexioned  young  man  as  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Venner. 

The  Widow  was  particularly  pleased  with  this 
accidental  meeting.  Had  heard  Mr.  Venner’s 
name  frequently  mentioned.  Hoped  his  uncle 
was  well,  and  his  charming  cousin,  — was  she  as 
original  as  ever  ? Had  often  admired  that  charm- 
ing creature  he  rode : we  had  had  some  fine 
horses.  Had  never  got  over  her  taste  for  riding, 
but  could  find  nobody  that  liked  a good  long  gal- 
lop since well  — she  couldn’t  help  wishing 

she  was  alongside  of  him,  the  other  day,  when 
she  saw  him  dashing  by,  just  at  twilight. 

The  Widow  paused ; lifted  a flimsy  handker- 


76 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


chief  with  a very  deep  black  border  so  as  to  play 
the  jet  bracelet;  pushed  the  tip  of  her  slender  foot 
beyond  the  lowest  of  her  black  flounces  ; looked 
up ; looked  down  ; looked  at  Mr.  Richard,  the 
very  picture  of  artless  simplicity,  — as  represented 
in  well-played  genteel  comedy. 

“ A good  bit  of  stuff,”  Dick  said  to  himself, — 
“ and  something  of  it  left  yet ; caramba  ! ” The 
Major  had  not  studied  points  for  nothing,  and  the 
Widow  was  one  of  the  right  sort.  The  young 
man  had  been  a little  restless  of  late,  and  was 
willing  to  vary  his  routine  by  picking  up  an  ac- 
quaintance here  and  there.  So  he  took  the  Wid- 
ow’s hint.  He  should  like  to  have  a scamper  of 
half  a dozen  miles  with  her  some  fine  morning. 

The  Widow  was  infinitely  obliged  ; was  not 
sure  that  she  could  find  any  horse  in  the  village 
to  suit  her  ; but  it  was  so  kind  in  him  ! Would 
he  not  call  at  Hyacinth  Cottage,  and  let  her 
thank  him  again  there  ? 

Thus  began  an  acquaintance  which  the  Wid- 
ow made  the  most  of,  and  on  the  strength  of 
which  she  determined  to  give  a tea-party  and 
invite  a number  of  persons  of  whom  we  know 
something  already.  She  took  a half-sheet  of 
note-paper  and  made  out  her  list  as  carefully  as  a 
country  “ merchant’s  ” “ clerk  ” adds  up  two  and 
threepence  (New-England  nomenclature)  and 
twelve  and  a half  cents,  figure  by  figure,  and 
fraction  by  fraction,  before  he  can  be  sure  they 
will  make  half  a dollar,  without  cheating  some- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


77 


body.  After  much  consideration  the  list  reduced 
itself  to  the  following  names  : Mr.  Richard  Ven- 
ner  and  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  the  lady  at*  whose 
house  she  had  met  him, — mansion-house  breed, 

— but  will  come,  — soft  on  Dick;  Dudley  Ven- 
ner, — take  care  of  him  herself;  Elsie, — Dick 
will  see  to  her,  — won’t  it  fidget  the  Creamer 
woman  to  see  him  round  her  ? the  old  Doctor,  — 
he’s  always  handy  ; and  there’s  that  young  mas- 
ter there,  up  at  the  school,  — know  him  well 
enough  to  ask  him,  — oh,  yes,  he’ll  come.  One, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  — seven  ; not  room 
enough,  without  the  leaf  in  the  table  ; one  place 
empty,  if  the  leaf’s  in.  Let’s  see,  — Helen  Dar- 
ley,  - — she’ll  do  well  enough  to  fill  it  up,  — why, 
yes,  just  the  thing,  — light  brown  hair,  blue  eyes, 

— won’t  my  pattern  show  off  well  against  her  ? 
Put  her  down,  — she’s  worth  her  tea  and  toast 
ten  times  over,  — nobody  knows  what  a u thun- 
der-and-lightning  woman,”  as  poor  Major  used  to 
have  it,  is,  till  she  gets  alongside  of  one  of  those 
old-maidish  girls,  with  hair  the  color  of  brown 
sugar,  and  eyes  like  the  blue  of  a teacup. 

The  Widow  smiled  with  a feeling  of  triumph 
at  having  overcome  her  difficulties  and  arranged 
her  party,  — arose  and  stood  before  her  glass, 
three-quarters  front,  one-quarter  profile,  so  as  to 
show  the  whites  of  the  eyes  and  the  down  of  the 
upper  lip.  “ Splendid  ! ” said  the  Widow,  — and 
to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  not  far  out  of  the  way, 
and  with  Helen  Darley  as  a foil  anybody  would 


78  ELSIE  VENNER. 

know  she  must  be  foudroyant  and  pyramidal,  — 
if  these  French  adjectives  may  be  naturalized  for 
this  one  particular  exigency. 

So  the  Widow  sent  out  her  notes.  The  black 
grief  which  had  filled  her  heart  and  overflowed  in 
surges  of  crape  around  her  person  had  left  a de- 
posit half  an  inch  wide  at  the  margin  of  her 
note-paper.  Her  seal  was  a small  youth  with  an 
inverted  torch,  the  same  on  which  Mrs.  Blanche 
Creamer  made  her  spiteful  remark,  that  she  ex- 
pected to  see  that  boy  of  the  Widow’s  standing 
on  his  head  yet ; meaning,  as  Dick  supposed,  that 
she  would  get  the  torch  right-side  up  as  soon  as 
she  had  a chance.  That  was  after  Dick  had 
made  the  Widow’s  acquaintance,  and  Mrs. 
Creamer  had  got  it  into  her  foolish  head  that  she 
would  marry  that  young  fellow,  if  she  could  catch 
him.  How  could  he  ever  come  to  fancy  such  a 
quadroon-looking  thing  as  that,  she  should  like  to 
know  ? 

It  is  easy  enough  to  ask  seven  people  to  a 
party  ; but  whether  they  will  come  or  not  is  an 
open  question,  as  it  was  in  the  case  of  the  “vasty 
spirits.”  If  the  note  issues  from  a three-story 
mansion-house,  and  goes  to  two-story  acquaint- 
ances, they  will  all  be  in  an  excellent  state  of 
health,  and  have  much  pleasure  in  accepting  this 
very  polite  invitation.  If  the  note  is  from  the 
lady  of  a two-story  family  to  three-story  ones, 
the  former  highly  respectable  person  will  very 
probably  find  that  an  endemic  complaint  is  prev- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


79 


alent,  not  represented  in  the  weekly  bills  of  mor- 
tality, which  occasions  numerous  regrets  in  the 
bosoms  of  eminently  desirable  parties  that  they 
cannot  have  the  pleasure  of  and-so-forthing. 

In  this  case  there  wa§  room  for  doubt,  — 
mainly  as  to  whether  Elsie  would  take  a fancy 
to  come  or  not.  If  she  should  come,  her  father 
would  certainly  be  with  her.  Dick  had  promised, 
and  thought  he  could  bring  Elsie.  Of  course 
the  young  schoolmaster  will  come,  and  that  poor 
tired-out  looking  Helen,  — if  only  to  get  out  of 
sight  of  those  horrid  Peckham  wretches.  They 
don’t  get  such  invitations  every  day.  The  others 
she  felt  sure  of,  — all  but  the  old  Doctor,  — he 
might  have  some  horrid  patient  *or  other  to  visit ; 
tell  him  Elsie  Venner’s  going  to  be  there,  — he 
always  likes  to  have  an  eye  on  her,  they  say,  — 
oh,  he’d  come  fast  enough,  without  any  more 
coaxing. 

She  wanted  the  Doctor,  particularly.  It  was 
odd,  but  she  was  afraid  of  Elsie.  She  felt  as  if 
she  should  be  safe  enough,  if  the  old  Doctor 
were  there  to  see  to  the  girl ; and  then  she 
should  have  leisure  to  devote  herself  more  freely 
to  the  young  lady’s  father,  for  whom  all  her 
sympathies  were  in  a state  of  lively  excitement. 

It  was  a long  time  since  the  Widow  had  seen 
so  many  persons  round  her  table  as  she  had  now 
invited.  Better  have  the  plates  set  and  see  how 
they  will  fill  it  up  with  the  leaf  in. — A little  too 
scattering  with  only  eight  plates  set ; if  she  could 


80 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


find  two  more  people,  now,  that  would  bring 
the  chairs  a little  closer,  — snug,  you  know, — 
which  makes  the  company  sociable.  The  Widow 
thought  over  her  acquaintances.  Why  ! how 
stupid ! there  was  her#  good  minister,  the  same 
who  had  married  her,  and  might  — might  — bury 
her  for  aught  she  knew,  and  his  granddaughter 
staying  with  him,  — nice  little  girl,  pretty,  and  not 
old  enough  to  be  dangerous;  — for  the  Widow 
had  no  notion  of  making  a tea-party  and  ask- 
ing people  to  it  that  would  be  like  to  stand  be- 
tween her  and  any  little  project  she  might  hap- 
pen to  have  on  anybody’s  heart,  — not  she  ! It 
was  all  right  now; — Blanche  was  married  and 
so  forth ; Letty  was  a child ; Elsie  was  his  daugh- 
ter; Helen  Darley  was  a nice,  worthy  drudge, — 
poor  thing  ! — faded,  faded,  — colors  wouldn’t 
wash, — just  what  she  wanted  to  show  off 
against.  Now,  if  the  Dudley  mansion-house 
people  would  only  come,  — that  was  the  great 
point. 

“ Here’s  a note  for  us,  Elsie,”  said  her  father, 
as  they  sat  round  the  breakfast-table.  “ Mrs. 
Rowens  wants  us  all  to  come  to  tea.” 

It  was  one  of  “ Elsie’s  days,”  as  Old  Sophy 
called  them.  The  light  in  her  eyes  was  still,  but 
very  bright.  She  looked  up  so  full  of  perverse 
and  wilful  impulses,  that  Dick  knew  he  could 
make  her  go  with  him  and  her  father.  He  had 
his  own  motives  for  bringing  her  to  this  determi- 
nation, — and  his  own  way  of  setting  about  it. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


81 


“ I don’t  want  to  go,”  he  said.  “ What  do 
you  say,  Uncle  ? ” 

“ To  tell  the  truth,  Richard,  I don’t  much 
fancy  the  Major’s  widow.  I don’t  like  to  see 
her  weeds  flowering  out  quite  so  strong.  I sup- 
pose you  don’t  care  about  going,  Elsie  ? ” 

Elsie  looked  up  in  her  father’s  face  with  an 
expression  which  he  knew  but  too  well.  She 
was  just  • in  the  state  which  the  plain  sort  of 
people  call  “ contrary,”  when  they  have  to  deal 
with  it  in  animals.  She  would  insist  on  going 
to  that  tea-party  ; he  knew  it  just  as  well  be- 
fore she  spoke  as  after  she  had  spoken.  If  Dick 
had  said  he  wanted  to  go  and  her  father  had 
seconded  his  wishes,  she  would  have  insisted  on 
staying  at  home.  It  was  no  great  matter,  her 
father  said  to  himself,  after  all ; very  likely  it 
would  amuse  her ; the  Widow  was  a lively 
woman  enough,  — perhaps  a little  comme  il  ne 
faut  pas  socially,  compared  with  the  Thorntons 
and  some  other  families  ; but  what  did  he  care 
for  these  petty  village  distinctions  ? 

Elsie  spoke. 

u I mean  to  go.  You  must  go  with  me,  Dud- 
ley. You  may  do  as  you  like,  Dick.” 

That  settled  the  Dudley-mansion  business,  of 
course.  They  all  three  accepted,  as  fortunately 
did  all  the  others  who  had  been  invited. 

Hyacinth  Cottage  was  a pretty  place  enough, 
a little  too  much  choked  round  with  bushes,  and 
6 


VOL.  II. 


82 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


too  much  overrun  with  climbing-roses,  which,  in 
the  season  of  slugs  and  rose-bugs,  were  apt  to 
show  so  brown  about  the  leaves  and  so  coleop- 
terous about  the  flowers,  that  it  might  be  ques- 
tioned whether  their  buds  and  blossoms  made 
up  for  these  unpleasant  animal  combinations, — 
especially  as  the  smell  of  whale-oil  soap  was  very 
commonly  in  the  ascendant  over  that  of  the  roses. 
It  had  its  patch  of  grass  called  “ the  lawn,”  and 
its  glazed  closet  known  as  “the  conservatory,” 
according  to  that  system  of  harmless  fictions 
characteristic  of  the  rural  imagination  and  shown 
in  the  names  applied  to  many  familiar  objects. 
The  interior  of  the  cottage  was  more  tasteful  and 
ambitious  than  that  of  the  ordinary  two-story 
dwellings.  In  place  of  the  prevailing  hair-cloth 
covered  furniture,  the  visitor  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seating  himself  upon  a chair  covered  with 
some  of  the  Widow’s  embroidery,  or  a sofa  lux- 
urious with  soft  caressing  plush.  The  sporting 
tastes  of  the  late  Major  showed  in  various  prints 
on  the  wall : Herring’s  “ Plenipotentiary,”  itre 
“red  bullock  ” of  the  ’34  Derby;  “ Cadland  ” and 
“ The  Colonel  ” ; “ Crucifix”  ; “ West- Australian,” 
fastest  of  modern  racers ; and  among  native 
celebrities,  ugly,  game  old  “ Boston,”  with  his 
straight  neck  and  ragged  hips ; and  gray  “ Lady 
Suffolk,”  queen,  in  her  day,  not  of  the  turf  but 
of  the  track,  “ extending  ” herself  till  she  meas- 
ured a rod,  more  or  less,  skimming  along  within 
a yard  of  the  ground,  her  legs  opening  and  shut- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


83 


ting  under  her  with  a snap,  like  the  four  blades 
of  a compound  jack-knife. 

These  pictures  were  much  more  refreshing  than 
those  dreary  fancy  death-bed  scenes,  common  in 
two-story  country-houses,  in  which  Washington 
and  other  distinguished  personages  are  represent- 
ed as  obligingly  devoting  their  last  moments  to 
taking  a prominent  part  in  a tableau , in  which 
weeping  relatives,  attached  servants,  professional 
assistants,  and  celebrated  personages  who  might 
by  a stretch  of  imagination  be  supposed  pres- 
ent, are  grouped  in  the  most  approved  style  of 
arrangement  about  the  chief  actor’s  pillow. 

A single  glazed  bookcase  held  the  family  li- 
brary, which  was  hidden  from  vulgar  eyes  by 
green  silk  curtains  behind'  the  glass.  It  would 
have  been  instructive  to  get  a look  at  it,  as  it 
always  is  to  peep  into  one’s  neighbor’s  book- 
shelves. From  other  sources  and  opportunities 
a partial  idea  of  it  has  been  obtained.  The 
Widow  had  inherited  some  books  from  her 
mother,  who  was  something  of  a reader : Young’s 
“ Night-Thoughts  ” ; “ The  Preceptor”  ; “ The 
Task,  a Poem,”  by  William  Cowper ; Hervey’s 
Meditations  ” ; “ Alonzo  and  Melissa  ” ; u Buc- 
caneers of  America  ” ; “ The  Triumphs  of  Tem- 
per”; “ La  Belle  Assemblee”;  Thomson’s  “ Sea- 
sons” ; and  a few  others.  The  Major  had  brought 
in  “ Tom  Jones  ” and  “ Peregrine  Pickle  ” ; vari- 
ous works  by  Mr.  Pierce  Egan  ; “ Boxiana  ” ; 
“ The  Racing  Calendar  ” ; and  a “ Book  of  Lively 


84 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Songs  and  Jests.”  The  Widow  had  added  the 
Poems  of  Lord  Byron  and  T.  Moore  ; “ Eugene 
Aram  ” ; “ The  Tower  of  London,”  by  Harrison 
Ainsworth  ; some  of  Scott’s  Novels  ; “ The  Pick- 
wick Papers  ” ; a volume  of  Plays,  by  W.  Shak- 
speare;  “ Proverbial  Philosophy” ; “Pilgrim’s  Prog- 
ress ” ; “ The  Whole  Duty  of  Man  ” (a  present 
when  she  was  married)  ; with  two  celebrated  re- 
ligious works,  one  by  William  Law  and  the  other 
by  Philip  Doddridge,  which  were  sent  her  after 
her  husband’s  death,  and  which  she  had  tried  to 
read,  but  found  that  they  did  not  agree  with  her. 
Of  course  the  bookcase  held  a few  school  man- 
uals and  compendiums,  and  one  of  Mr.  Web- 
ster’s Dictionaries.  But  the  gilt-edged  Bible 
always  lay  on  the  centre-table,  next  to  the  mag- 
azine with  the  fashion-plates  and  the  scrap-book 
with  pictures  from  old  annuals  and  illustrated 
papers. 

The  reader  need  not  apprehend  the  recital,  at 
full  length,  of  such  formidable  preparations  for 
the  Widow’s  tea-party  as  were  required  in  the 
case  of  Colonel  Sprowle’s  Social  Entertainment. 
A tea-party,  even  in  the  country,  is  a compar- 
atively simple  and  economical  piece  of  business. 
As  soon  as  the  Widow  found  that  all  her  com- 
pany were  coming,  she  set  to  work,  with  the  aid 
of  her  “ smart  ” maid-servant  and  a daughter  of 
her  own,  who  was  beginning  to  stretch  and  spread 
at  a fearful  rate,  but  whom  she  treated  as  a small 
child,  to  make  the  necessary  preparations.  The 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


85 


silver  had  to  be  rubbed ; also  the  grand  plated 
urn, — her  mother’s  before  hers,  — style  of  the 
Empire,  — looking  as  if  it  might  have  been  made 
to  hold  the  Major’s  ashes.  Then  came  the  mak- 
ing and  baking  of  cake  and  gingerbread,  the 
smell  whereof  reached  even  as  far  as  the  sidewalk 
in  front  of  the  cottage,  so  that  small  boys  return- 
ing from  school  snuffed  it  in  the  breeze,  and  dis- 
coursed with  each  other  on  its  suggestions  ; so 
that  the  Widow  Leech,  who  happened  to  pass, 
remembered  she  hadn’t  called  on  Marilly  Raowens 
for  a consid’ble  spell,  and  turned  in  at  the  gate 
and  rang  three  times  with  long  intervals,  — but 
all  in  vain,  the  inside  Widow  having  “ spotted  ” 
the  outside  one  through  the  blinds,  and  whispered 
to  her  aides-de-camp  to  let  the  old  thing  ring  away 
till  she  pulled  the  bell  out  by  the  roots,  but  not  to 
stir  to  open  the  door. 

Widow  Rowens  was  what  they  called  a real 
smart,  capable  woman,  not  very  great  on  books, 
perhaps,  but  knew  what  was  what  and  who  was 
who  as  well  as  another,  — knew  how  to  make  the 
little  cottage  look  pretty,  how  to  set  out  a tea- 
table,  and,  what  a good  many  women  never  can 
find  out,  knew  her  own  style  and  u got  herself  up 
tip-top,”  as  our  young  friend  Master  Geordie, 
Colonel  Sprowle’s  heir-apparent,  remarked  to  his 
friend  from  one  of  the  fresh-water  colleges. 
Flowers  were  abundant  now,  and  she  had 
dressed  her  rooms  tastefully  with  them.  The 
centre-table  had  two  or  three  gilt-edged  books 


86 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


lying  carelessly  about  on  it,  and  some  prints, 
and  a stereoscope  with  stereographs  to  match, 
chiefly  groups  of  picnics,  weddings,  etc.,  in  which 
the  same  somewhat  fatigued-looking  ladies  of 
fashion  and  brides  received  the  attentions  of  the 
same  unpleasant-looking  young  men,  easily  iden- 
tified under  their  different  disguises,  consisting  of 
fashionable  raiment  such  as  gentlemen  are  sup- 
posed to  wear  habitually.  With  these,  however, 
were  some  pretty  English  scenes,  — pretty  except 
for  the  old  fellow  with  the  hanging  under-lip  who 
infests  every  one  of  that  interesting  series ; and  a 
statue  or  two,  especially  that  famous  one  com- 
monly called  the  Lahcoon,  so  as  to  rhyme  with 
moon  and  spoon,  and  representing  an  old  man 
with  his  two  sons  in  the  embraces  of  two  mon- 
strous serpents. 

There  is  no  denying  that  it  was  a very  dashing 
achievement  of  the  Widow’s  to  bring  together  so 
considerable  a number  of  desirable  guests.  She 
felt  proud  of  her  feat ; but  as  to  the  triumph  of 
getting  Dudley  Venner  to  come  out  for  a visit  to 
Hyacinth  Cottage,  she  was  surprised  and  almost 
frightened  at  her  own  success.  So  much  might 
depend  on  the  impressions  of  that  evening! 

The  next  thing  was  to  be  sure  that  everybody 
should  be  in  the  right  place  at  the  tea-table,  and 
this  the  Widow  thought  she  could  manage  by  a 
few  words  to  the  older  guests  and  a little  shuffling 
about  and  shifting  when  they  got  to  the  table. 
To  settle  everything  the  Widow  made  out  a dia- 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


87 


gram,  which  the  reader  should  have  a chance  of 
inspecting  in  an  authentic  copy,  if  these  pages 
were  allowed  under  any  circumstances  to  be  the 
vehicle  of  illustrations.  If,  however,  he  or  she 
really  wishes  to  see  the  way  the  pieces  stood  as 
they  werq  placed  at  the  beginning  of  the  game, 
(the  Widow’s  gambit,)  he  or  she  had  better  at 
once  take  a sheet  of  paper,  draw  an  oval,  and 
arrange  the  characters  according  to  the  following 
schedule. 

At  the  head  of  the  table,  the  Hostess,  Widow 
Marilla  Rowens.  Opposite  her,  at  the  other  end, 
Rev.  Dr.  Honeywood.  At  the  right  of  the  Host- 
ess, Dudley  Venner,  next  him  Helen  Darley,  next 
her  Dr.  Kittredge,  next  him  Mrs.  Blanche  Crea- 
mer, then  the  Reverend  Doctor.  At  the  left  of 
the  Hostess,  Bernard  Langdon,  next  him  Letty 
Forrester,  next  Letty  Mr.  Richard  Venner,  next 
him  Elsie,  and  so  to  the  Reverend  Doctor  again. 

The  company  came  together  a little  before  the 
early  hour  at  which  it  was  customary  to  take  tea 
in  Rockland.  The  Widow  knew  everybody,  of 
course  : who  was  there  in  Rockland  she  did  not 
know  ? But  some  of  them  had  to  be  introduced : 
Mr.  Richard  Venner  to  Mr.  Bernard,  Mr.  Bernard 
to  Miss  Letty,  Dudley  Venner  to  Miss  Helen 
Darley,  and  so  on.  The  two  young  men  looked 
each  other  straight  in  the  eyes,  — both  full  of 
youthful  life,  but  one  of  frank  and  fearless  aspect, 
the  other  with  a dangerous  feline  beauty  alien  to 
the  New  England  half  of  his  blood. 


88 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


The  guests  talked,  turned  over  the  prints,  looked 
at  the  flowers,  opened  the  “ Proverbial  Philoso- 
phy ” with  gilt  edges,  and  the  volume  of  Plays  by 
W.  Shakspeare,  examined  the  horse-pictures  on 
the  walls,  and  so  passed  away  the  time  until  tea 
was  announced,  when  they  paired  oft*  for  the  room 
where  it  was  in  readiness.  The  Widow  had 
managed  it  well ; everything  was  just  as  she 
wanted  it.  Dudley  Yenner  was  between  herself 
and  the  poor  tired-looking  school- mistress  with  her 
faded  colors.  Blanche  Creamer,  a lax,  tumble-to- 
pieces,  Greuze- ish  looking  blonde,  whom  the 
Widow  hated  because  the  men  took  to  her,  was 
purgatoried  between  the  two  old  Doctors,  and 
could  see  all  the  looks  that  passed  between  Dick 
Venner  and  his  cousin.  The  young  school-master 
could  talk  to  Miss  Letty : it  was  his  business  to 
know  how  to  talk  to  school-girls.  Dick  would 
amuse  himself  with  his  cousin  Elsie.  The  old 
Doctors  only  wanted  to  be  well  fed  and  they 
would  do  well  enough. 

It  would  be  very  pleasant  to  describe  the  tea- 
table  ; but  in  reality,  it  did  not  pretend  to  offer 
a plethoric  banquet  to  the  guests.  The  Widow 
had  not  visited  at  the  mansion-houses  for  nothing, 
and  she  had  learned  there  that  an  overloaded  tea- 
table  may  do  well  enough  for  farm-hands  when 
they  come  in  at  evening  from  their  work  and  sit 
down  unwashed  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  but  that  for 
decently  bred  people  such  an  insult  to  the  mem- 
ory of  a dinner  not  yet  half-assimilated  is  wholly 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


89 


inadmissible.  Everything  was  delicate,  and  al- 
most everything  of  fair  complexion  : white  bread 
and  biscuits,  frosted  and  sponge  cake,  cream, 
honey,  straw-colored  butter ; only  a shadow  here 
and  there,  where  the  fire  had  crisped  and  browned 
the  surfaces  of  a stack  of  dry  toast,  or  where  a 
preserve  had  brought  away  some  of  the  red  sun- 
shine of  the  last  year’s  summer.  The  Widow 
shall  have  the  credit  of  her  well-ordered  tea-table, 
also  of  her  bountiful  cream-pitchers ; for  it  is  well 
known  that  city-people  find  cream  a very  scarce 
luxury  in  a good  many  country-houses  of  more 
pretensions  than  Hyacinth  Cottage.  There  are 
no  better  maxims  for  ladies  who  give  tea-parties 
than  these  : — 

Cream  is  thicker  than  water . 

Large  heart  never  loved  little  cream-pot. 

There  is  a common  feeling  in  genteel  families 
that  the  third  meal  of  the  day  is  not  so  essential 
a part  of  the  daily  bread  as  to  require  any  especial 
acknowledgment  to  the  Providence  which  bestows 
it.  Very  devout  people,  who  would  never  sit  down 
to  a breakfast  or  a dinner  without  the  grace  before 
meat  which  honors  the  Giver  of  it,  feel  as  if  they 
thanked  Heaven  enough  for  their  tea  and  toast 
oy  partaking  of  them  cheerfully  without  audible 
petition  or  ascription.  But  the  Widow  was  not 
exactly  mansion-house-bred,  and  so  thought  it 
necessary  to  give  the  Reverend  Doctor  a peculiar 
look  which  he  understood  at  once  as  inviting  his 
professional  services.  He,  therefore,  uttered  a few 


90 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


simple  words  of  gratitude,  very  quietly,  — much 
to  the  satisfaction  of  some  of  the  guests,  who  had 
expected  one  of  those  elaborate  effusions,  with 
rolling  up  of  the  eyes  and  rhetorical  accents,  so 
frequent  with  eloquent  divines  when  they  address 
their  Maker  in  genteel  company. 

Everybody  began  talking  with  the  person  sit? 
ting  next  at  hand.  Mr.  Bernard  naturally  enough 
turned  his  attention  first  to  the  Widow ; but 
somehow  or  other  the  right  side  of  the  Widow 
seemed  to  be  more  wide  awake  than  the  left  side, 
next  him,  and  he  resigned  her  to  the  courtesies 
of  Mr.  Dudley  Venner,  directing  himself,  not  very 
unwillingly,  to  the  young  girl  next  him  on  the 
other  side.  Miss  Letty  Forrester,  the  grand- 
daughter of  the  Reverend  Doctor,  was  city-bred, 
as  anybody  might  see,  and  city-dressed,  as  any 
woman  would  know  at  sight;  a man  might  only 
feel  the  general  effect  of  clear,  well-matched  col- 
ors, of  harmonious  proportions,  of  the  cut  which 
makes  everything  cling  like  a bather’s  sleeve 
where  a natural  outline  is  to  be  kept,  and  ruffle 
itself  up  like  the  hackle  of  a pitted  fighting-cock 
where  art  has  a right  to  luxuriate  in  silken  ex- 
uberance. How  this  city-bred  and  city -dressed 
girl  came  to  be  in  Rockland  Mr.  Bernard  did  not 
know,  but  he  knew  at  any  rate  that  she  was  his 
next  neighbor  and  entitled  to  his  courtesies.  She 
was  handsome,  too,  when  he  came  to  look,  very 
handsome  when  he  came  to  look  again,  — en- 
dowed with  that  city  beauty  which  is  like  the 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


91 


beauty  of  wall-fruit,  something  finer  in  certain 
respects  than  can  be  reared  off  the  pavement. 

The  miserable  routinists  who  keep  repeating 
invidiously  Cowper’s 

“ God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town,” 

as  if  the  town  were  a place  to  kill  out  the  race 
in,  do  not  know  what  they  are  talking  about. 
Where  could  they  raise  such  Saint- Michael  pears, 
such  Saint- Germains,  such  Brown  Beurres,  as 
we  had  until  within  a few  years  growing  with- 
in the  walls  of  our  old  city-gardens  ? Is  the  dark 
and  damp  cavern  where  a ragged  beggar  hides 
himself  better  than  a town-mansion  which  fronts 

i 

the  sunshine  and  backs  on  its  own  cool  shadow, 
with  gas  and  water  and  all  appliances  to  suit  all 
needs  ? God  made  the  cavern  and  man  made 
the  house!  What  then? 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  pavement  keeps  a 
deal  of  mischief  from  coming  up  out  of  the  earth, 
and,  with  a dash  off  of  it  in  summer,  just  to  cool 
the  soles  of  the  feet  when  it  gets  too  hot,  is  the 
best  place  for  many  constitutions,  as  some  few 
practical  people  have  already  discovered.  And 
just  so  these  beauties  that  grow  and  ripen  against 
the  city-walls,  these  young  fellows  with  cheeks 
like  peaches  and  young  girls  with  cheeks  like 
nectarines,  show  that  the  most  perfect  forms  of 
artificial  life  can  do  as  much  for  the  human  prod- 
uct as  garden-culture  for  strawberries  and  black- 
berries. 


92 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


If  Mr.  Bernard  had  philosophized  or  prosed  in 
this  way,  with  so  pretty,  nay,  so  lovely  a neigh- 
bor as  Miss  Letty  Forrester  waiting  for  him  to 
speak  to  her,  he  would  have  to  be  dropped  from 
this  narrative  as  a person  unworthy  of  his  good- 
fortune,  and  not  deserving  the  kind  reader’s  fur- 
ther notice.  On  the  contrary,  he  no  sooner  set 
his  eyes  fairly  on  her  than  he  said  to  himself  that 
she  was  charming,  and  that  he  wished  she  were 
one  of  his  scholars  at  the  Institute.  So  he  began 
talking  with  her  in  an  easy  way ; for  he  knew 
something  of  young  , girls  by  this  time,  and,  of 
course,  could  adapt  himself  to  a young  lady  who 
looked  as  if  she  might  be  not  more  than  fifteen  or 
sixteen  years  old,  and  therefore  could  hardly  be 
a match  in  intellectual  resources  for  the  seventeen 
and  eighteen  year-old  first-class  scholars  of  the 
Apollinean  Institute.  But  city-wall-fruit  ripens 
early,  and  he  soon  found  that  this  girl’s  training 
had  so  sharpened  her  wits  and  stored  her  mem- 
ory, that  he  need  not  be  at  the  trouble  to  stoop 
painfully  in  order  to  come  down  to  her  level. 

The  beauty  of  good-breeding  is  that  it  adjusts 
itself  to  all  relations  without  effort,  true  to  itself 
always,  however  the  manners  of  those  around 
it  may  change.  Self-respect  and  respect  for 
others,  — the  sensitive  consciousness  poises  itself 
in  these  as  the  compass  in  the  ship’s  binnacle 
balances  itself  and  maintains  its  true  level  with- 
in the  two  concentric  rings  which  suspend  it  on 
their  pivots.  This  thorough-bred  school-girl  quite 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


93 


enchanted  Mr.  Bernard.  He  could  not  under- 
stand where  she  got  her  style,  her  way  of  dress, 
her  enunciation,  her  easy  manners.  The  minis- 
ter was  a most  worthy  gentleman,  but  this  was 
not  the  Rockland  native-born  manner ; some  new 
element  had  come  in  between  the  good,  plain, 
worthy  man  and  this  young  girl,  fit  to  be  a Crown 
Prince’s  partner  where  there  were  a thousand  to 
choose  from. 

He  looked  across  to  Helen  Darley,  for  he  knew 
she  would  understand  the  glance  of  admiration 
with  which  he  called  her  attention  to  the  young 
beauty  at  his  side ; and  Helen  knew  what  a young 
girl  could  be,  as  compared  with  what  too  many  a 
one  is,  as  well  as  anybody. 

This  poor,  dear  Helen  of  ours  ! How  admira- 
ble the  contrast  between  her  and  the  Widow  on 
the  other  side  of  Dudley  Venner ! But,  what  was 
very  odd,  that  gentleman  apparently  thought  the 
contrast  was  to  the  advantage  of  this  poor,  dear 
Helen.  At  any  rate,  instead  of  devoting  himself 
solely  to  the  Widow,  he  happened  to  be  just  at 
that  moment  talking  in  a very  interested  and, 
apparently,  not  uninteresting  way  to  his  right- 
hand  neighbor,  who,  on  her  part,  never  looked 
more  charmingly, — as  Mr.  Bernard  could  not 
help  saying  to  himself,  — but,  to  be  sure,  he  had 
just  been  looking  at  the  young  girl  next  him,  so 
that  his  eyes  were  brimful  of  beauty,  and  may 
have  spilled  some  of  it  on  the  first  comer : for  you 
know  M.  Becquerel  has  been  showing  us  lately 


94 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


how  everything  is  phosphorescent ; that  it  soaks 
itself  with  light  in  an  instant’s  exposure,  so  that 
it  is  wet  with  liquid  sunbeams,  or,  if  you  will, 
tremulous  with  luminous  vibrations,  when  first 
plunged  into  the  negative  bath  of  darkness,  and 
betrays  itself  by  the  light  which  escapes  from  its 
surface. 

Whatever  were  the  reason,  this  poor,  dear 
Helen  never  looked  so  sweetly.  Her  plainly 
parted  brown  hair,  her  meek,  blue  eyes,  her  cheek 
just  a little  tinged  with  color,  the  almost  sad 
simplicity  of  her  dress,  and  that  look  he  knew  so 
well,  — so  full  of  cheerful  patience,  so  sincere, 
that  he  had  trusted  her  from  the  first  moment  as 
the  believers  of  the  larger  half  of  Christendom 
trust  the  Blessed  Virgin, — Mr.  Bernard  took  this 
all  in  at  a glance,  and  felt  as  pleased  as  if  it  had 
been  his  own  sister  Dorothea  Elizabeth  that  he 
was  looking  at.  As  for  Dudley  Venner,  Mr. 
Bernard  could  not  help  being  struck  by  the  ani- 
mated expression  of  his  countenance.  It  cer- 
tainly showed  great  kindness,  on  his  part,  to  pay 
so  much  attention  to  this  quiet  girl,  when  he  had 
the  thunder-and-lightning  Widow  on  the  other 
side  of  him. 

Mrs.  Marilla  Rowens  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  She  had  made  her  tea-party  expressly 
for  Mr.  Dudley  Venner.  She  had  placed  him  just 
as  she  wanted,  between  herself  and  a meek,  deli- 
cate woman  who  dressed  in  gray,  wore  a plain 
breastpin  with  hair  in  it,  who  taught  a pack  of 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


95 


girls  up  there  at  the  school,  and  looked  as  if  she 
were  born  for  a teacher,  — the  very  best  foil  that 
she  could  have  chosen  ; and  here  was  this  man, 
polite  enough  to  herself,  to  be  sure,  but  turning 
round  to  that  very  undistinguished  young  person, 
as  if  he  rather  preferred  her  conversation  of  the 
two ! 

The  truth  was  that  Dudley  Venner  and  Helen 
Darley  met  as  two  travellers  might  meet  in  the 
desert,  wearied,  both  of  them,  with  their  long 
journey,  one  having  food,  but  no  water,  the  other 
water,  but  no  food.  Each  saw  that  the  other  had 
been  in  long  conflict  with  some  trial ; for  their 
voices  were  low  and  tender,  as  patiently  borne 
sorrow  and  humbly  uttered  prayers  make  every 
human  voice.  Through  these  tones,  more  than 
by  what  they  said,  they  came  into  natural  sym- 
pathetic relations  with  each  other.  Nothing  could 
be  more  unstudied.  As  for  Dudley  Venner,  no 
beauty  in  all  the  world  could  have  so  soothed 
and  magnetized  him  as  the  very  repose  and  sub- 
dued gentleness  which  the  Widow  had  thought 
would  make  the  best  possible  background  for  her 
own  more  salient  and  effective  attractions.  No 
doubt,  Helen,  on  her  side,  was  almost  too  readily 
pleased  with  the  confidence  this  new  acquaint- 
ance she  was  making  seemed  to  show  her  from 
the  very  first.  She  knew  so  few  men  of  any  con- 
dition ! Mr.  Silas  Peckham  : he  was  her  employer, 
and  she  ought  to  think  of  him  as  well  as  she 
could ; but  every  time  she  thought  of  him  it  was 


96 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


with  a shiver  of  disgust.  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  : 
a noble  young  man,  a true  friend,  like  a brother 
to  her,  — God  bless  him,  and  send  him  some 
young  heart  as  fresh  as  his  own ! But  this  gen- 
tleman produced  a new  impression  upon  her, 
quite  different  from  any  to  which  she  was  accus- 
tomed. His  rich,  low  tones  had  the  strangest 
significance  to  her ; she  felt  sure  he  must  have 
lived  through  long  experiences,  sorrowful  like  her 
own.  Elsie’s  father ! She  looked  into  his  dark 
eyes,  as  she  listened  to  him,  to  see  if  they  had 
any  glimmer  of  that  peculiar  light,  diamond- 
bright,  but  cold  and  still,  which  she  knew  so  well 
in  Elsie’s.  Anything  but  that ! Never  was  there 
more  tenderness,  it  seemed  to  her,  than  in  the 
whole  look  and  expression  of  Elsie’s  father.  She 
must  have  been  a great  trial  to  him  ; yet  his  face 
was  that  of  one  who  had  been  saddened,  not 
soured,  by  his  discipline.  Knowing  what  Elsie 
must  be  to  him,  how  hard  she  must  make  any 
parent’s  life,  Helen  could  not  but  be  struck  with 
the  interest  Mr.  Dudley  Yenner  showed  in  her  as 
his  daughter’s  instructress.  He  was  too  kind  to 
her ; again  and  again  she  meekly  turned  from 
him,  so  as  to  leave  him  free  to  talk  to  the  showy 
lady  at  his  other  side,  who  was  looking  all  the 
while 

“ like  the  night 

Of  cloudless  realms  and  starry  skies  ” ; 

but  still  Mr.  Dudley  Venner,  after  a few  courte- 
ous words,  came  back  to  the  blue  eyes  and  brown 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


97 


hair ; still  he  kept  his  look  fixed  upon  her,  and 
his  tones  grew  sweeter  and  lower  as  he  became 
more  interested  in  talk,  until  this  poor,  dear 
Helen,  what  with  surprise,  and  the  bashfulness 
natural  to  one  who  had  seen  little  of  the  gay 
world,  and  the  stirring  of  deep,  confused  sym- 
pathies with  this  suffering  father,  whose  heart 
seemed  so  full  of  kindness,  felt  her  cheeks  glow- 
ing with  unwonted  flame,  and  betrayed  the  pleas- 
ing trouble  of  her  situation  by  looking  so  sweetly 
as  to  arrest  Mr.  Bernard’s  eye  for  a moment, 
when  he  looked  away  from  the  young  beauty 
sitting  next  him. 

Elsie  meantime  had  been  silent,  with  that 
singular,  still,  watchful  look  which  those  who 
knew  her  well  had  learned  to  fear.  Her  head 
just  a little  inclined  on  one  side,  perfectly  mo- 
tionless for  whole  minutes,  her  eyes  seeming  to 
grow  small  and  bright,  as  always  when  she  was 
under  her  evil  influence,  she  was  looking  ob- 
liquely at  the  young  girl  on  the  other  side  of  her 
cousin  Dick  and  next  to  Bernard  Langdon.  As 
for  Dick  himself,  she  seemed  to  be  paying  very 
little  attention  to  him.  Sometimes  her  eyes 
would  wander  off  to  Mr.  Bernard,  and  their  ex- 
pression, as  old  Dr.  Kittredge,  who  watched  her 
for  a while  pretty  keenly,  noticed,  would  change 
perceptibly.  One  would  have  said  that  she 
looked  with  a kind  of  dull  hatred  at  the  girl, 
but  with  a half-relenting  reproachful  anger  at 
Mr.  Bernard. 


VOL.  II. 


7 


98 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


JMiss  Letty  Forrester,  at  whom  Elsie  had  been 
looking  from  time  to  time  in  this  fixed  way, 
was  conscious  meanwhile  of  some  unusual  in- 
fluence. First  it  was  a feeling  of  constraint, — 
then,  as  it  were,  a diminished  power  over  the 
muscles,  as  if  an  invisible  elastic  cobweb  were 
spinning  round  her,  — then  a tendency  to  turn 
away  from  Mr.  Bernard,  who  was  making  him- 
self very  agreeable,  and  look  straight  into  those 
eyes  which  would  not  leave  her,  and  which 
seemed  to  be  drawing  her  towards  them,  while 
at  the  same  time  they  chilled  the  blood  in  all 
her  veins. 

Mr.  Bernard  saw  this  influence-  coming  over 
her.  All  at  once  he  noticed  that  she  sighed, 
and  that  some  little  points  of  moisture  began  to 
glisten  on  her  forehead.  But  she  did  not  grow 
pale  perceptibly  ; she  had  no  involuntary  or  hys- 
teric movements  ; she  still  listened  to  him  and 
smiled  naturally  enough.  Perhaps  she  was  only 
nervous  at  being  stared  at.  At  any  rate,  she  was 
coming  under  some  unpleasant  influence  or  other, 
and  Mr.  Bernard  had  seen  enough  of  the  strange 
impression  Elsie  sometimes  produced  to  wish 
this  young  girl  to  be  relieved  from  it,  whatever 
it  was.  He  turned  toward  Elsie  and  looked  at 
her  in  such  a way  as  to  draw  her  eyes  upon  him. 
Then  he  looked  steadily  and  calmly  into  them. 
It  was  a great  effort,  for  some  perfectly  inex- 
plicable reason.  At  one  instant  he  thought  he 
could  not  sit  where  he  was ; he  must  go  and 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


99 


speak  to  Elsie.  Then  he  wanted  to  take  his 
eyes  away  from  hers  ; there  was  something  in- 
tolerable in  the  light  that  came  from  them.  But 
he  was  determined  to  look  her  down,  and  he  be- 
lieved he  could  do  it,  for  he  had  seen  her  counte- 
nance change  more  than  once  when  he  had 
caught  her  gaze  steadily  fixed  on  him.  All  this 
took  not  minutes,  but  seconds.  Presently  she 
changed  color  slightly,  — lifted  her  head,  which 
was  inclined  a little  to  one  side,  — shut  and 
opened  her  eyes  two  or  three  times,  as  if  they 
had  been  pained  or  wearied,  — and  turned  away 
baffled,  and  shamed,  as  it  would  seem,  and  shorn 
for  the  time  of  her  singular  and  formidable  or  at 
least  evil-natured  power  of  swaying  the  impulses 
of  those  around  her. 

It  takes  too  long  to  describe  these  scenes 
where  a good  deal  of  life  is  concentrated  into 
a few  silent  seconds.  Mr.  Richard  Venner  had 
sat  quietly  through  it  all,  although  this  short 
pantomime  had  taken  place  literally  before  his 
face.  He  saw  what  was  going  on  well  enough, 
and  understood  it  all  perfectly  well.  Of  course 
the  school-master  had  been  trying  to  make  Elsie 
jealous,  and  had  succeeded.  The  little  school- 
girl was  a decoy-duck,  — that  was  all.  Estates 
like  the  Dudley  property  were  not  to  be  had 
every  day,  and  no  doubt  the  Yankee  usher  was 
willing  to  take  some  pains  to  make  sure  of  Elsie. 
Doesn’t  Elsie  look  savage  ? Dick  involuntarily 
moved  his  chair  a little  away  from  her,  and 


100 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


thought  he  felt  a pricking  in  the  small  white 
scars  on  his  wrist.  A dare-devil  fellow,  but 
somehow  or  other  this  girl  had  taken  strange 
hold  of  his  imagination,  and  he  often  swore  to 
himself,  that,  when  he  married  her,  he  would 
carry  a loaded  revolver  with  him  to  his  bridal 
chamber. 

Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer  raged  inwardly  at  first  to 
find  herself  between  the  two  old  gentlemen  of  the 
party.  It  very  soon  gave  her  great  comfort,  how- 
ever, to  see  that  Marilla  Bowens  had  just  missed 
it  in  her  calculations,  and  she  chuckled  im- 
mensely to  find  Dudley  Venner  devoting  him- 
self chiefly  to  Helen  Darley.  If  the  Bowens 
woman  should  hook  Dudley,  she  felt  as  if  she 
should  gnaw  all  her  nails  off  for  spite.  To  think 
of  seeing  her  barouching  about  Bockland  be- 
hind a pair  of  long-tailed  bays  and  a coachman 
with  a band  on  his  hat,  while  she,  Blanche  Crea- 
mer, was  driving  herself  about  in  a one-horse 
“ carriage  ” ! Becovering  her  spirits  by  degrees, 
she  began  playing  her  surfaces  off  at  the  two 
old  Doctors,  just  by  way  of  practice.  First  she 
heaved  up  a glaring  white  shoulder,  the  right 
one,  so  that  the  Beverend  Doctor  should  be 
stunned  by  it,  if  such  a thing  might  be.  The 
Beverend  Doctor  was  human,  as  the  Apostle 
was  not  ashamed  to  confess  himself.  Half- 
devoutly  and  half-mischievously  he  repeated  in- 
wardly, “ Besist  the  Devil  and  he  will  flee  from 
you.”  As  the  Beverend  Doctor  did  not  show 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


101 


any  lively  susceptibility,  she  thought  she  would 
try  the  left  shoulder  on  old  Dr.  Kittredge.  That 
worthy  and  experienced  student  of  science  was 
not  at  all  displeased  with  the  manoeuvre,  and 
lifted  his  head  so  as  to  command  the  exhibition 
through  his  glasses.  “ Blanche  is  good  for  half 
a dozen  years  or  so,  if  she  is  careful,”  the  Doctor 
said  to  himself,  u and  then  she  must  take  to  her 
prayer-book.”  After  this  spasmodic  failure  of 
Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer’s  to  stir  up  the  old  Doc- 
tors, she  returned  again  to  the  pleasing  task  of 
watching  the  Widow  in  her  evident  discomfiture. 
But  dark  as  the  Widow  looked  in  her  half-con- 
cealed  pet,  she  was  but  as  a pale  shadow,  com- 
pared to  Elsie  in  her  silent  concentration  of 
shame  and  anger. 

“ Well,  there  is  one  good  thing,”  said  Mrs. 
Blanche  Creamer ; “ Dick  doesn’t  get  much  out 
of  that  cousin  of  his  this  evening!  Doesn’t  he 
look  handsome,  though  ? ” 

So  Mrs.  Blanche,  being  now  a good  deal  taken 
up  with  her  observations  of  those  friends  of  hers 
and  ours,  began  to  be  rather  careless  of  her  two 
old  Doctors,  who  naturally  enough  fell  into  con- 
versation with  each  other  across  the  white  sur- 
faces of  that  lady,  — perhaps  not  very  politely, 
but,  under  the  circumstances,  almost  as  a matter 
of  necessity. 

When  a minister  and  a doctor  get  talking 
together,  they  always  have  a great  deal  to  say  ; 
and  so  it  happened  that  the  company  left  the 


102 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


table  just  as  the  tvvo  Doctors  were  beginning  to 
get  at  each  other’s  ideas  about  various  interest- 
ing matters.  If  we  follow  them  into  the  other 
parlor,  we  can,  perhaps,  pick  up  something  of 
their  conversation. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


103 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

WHY  DOCTORS  DIFFER. 

The  company  rearranged  itself  with  some 
changes  after  leaving  the  tea-table.  Dudley 
Yenner  was  very  polite  to  the  Widow ; but  that 
lady  having  been  called  off  for  a few  moments 
for  some  domestic  arrangement,  he  slid  back  to 
the  side  of  Helen  Darley,  his  daughter’s  faithful 
teacher.  Elsie  had  got  away  by  herself,  and  was 
taken  up  in  studying  the  stereoscopic  Laocoon. 
Dick,  being  thus  set  free,  had  been  seized  upon 
by  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  who  had  diffused  her- 
self over  three-quarters  of  a sofa  and  beckoned 
him  to  the  remaining  fourth.  Mr.  Bernard  and 
Miss  Letty  were  having  a snug  tete-a-tete  in  the 
recess  of  a bay-window.  The  two  Doctors  had 
taken  two  arm-chairs  and  sat  squared  off  against 
each  other.  Their  conversation  is  perhaps  as 
well  worth  reporting  as  that  of  the  rest  of  the 
company,  and,  as  it  was  carried  on  in  a louder 
tone,  was  of  course  more  easy  to  gather  and  put 
on  record. 

It  was  a curious  sight  enough  to  see  those  two 
representatives  of  two  great  professions  brought 


104 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


face  to  face  to  talk  over  the  subjects  they  had 
been  looking  at  all  their  lives  from  such  dif- 
ferent points  of  view.  Both  were  old ; old 
enough  to  have  been  moulded  by  their  habits 
of  thought  and  life ; old  enough  to  have  all 
their  beliefs  u fretted  in,”  as  vintners  say,  — 
thoroughly  worked  up  with  their  characters. 
Each  of  them  looked  his  calling.  The  Rev- 
erend Doctor  had  lived  a good  deal  among 
books  in  his  study;  the  Doctor,  as  we  will  call 
the  medical  gentleman,  had  been  riding  about 
the  country  for  between  thirty  and  forty  years. 
His  face  looked  tough  and  weather-worn  ; while 
the  Reverend  Doctor’s,  hearty  as  it  appeared, 
was  of  finer  texture.  The  Doctor’s  was  the 
graver  of  the  two ; there  was  something  of 
grimness  about  it,  — partly  owing  to  the  north- 
easters he  had  faced  for  so  many  years,  partly 
to  long  companionship  with  that  stern  person- 
age who  never  deals  in  sentiment  or  pleasantry. 
His  speech  was  apt  to  be  brief  and  peremp- 
tory ; it  was  a way  he  had  got  by  ordering 
patients  ; but  he  could  discourse  somewhat,  on 
occasion,  as  the  reader  may  find  out.  The 
Reverend  Doctor  had  an  open,  smiling  expres- 
sion, a cheery  voice,  a hearty  laugh,  and  a 
cordial  way  with  him  which  some  thought  too 
lively  for  his  cloth,  but  which  children,  who  are 
good  judges  of  such  matters,  delighted  in,  so 
that  he  was  the  favorite  of  all  the  little  rogues 
about  town.  But  he  had  the  clerical  art  of  so- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


105 


bering  down  in  a moment,  when  asked  to  say 
grace  while  somebody  was  in  the  middle  of  some 
particularly  funny  story  ; and  though  his  voice 
was  so  cheery  in  common  talk,  in  the  pulpit,  like 
almost  all  preachers,  he  had  a wholly  different 
and  peculiar  way  of  speaking,  supposed  to  be 
more  acceptable  to  the  Creator  than  the  natural 
manner.  In  point  of  fact,  most  of  our  anti- 
papal  and  anti-prelatical  clergymen  do  really  in - 
tone  their  prayers,  without  suspecting  in  the  least 
that  they  have  fallen  into  such  a Romish  practice. 

This  is  the  way  the  conversation  between  the 
Doctor  of  Divinity  and  the  Doctor  of  Medicine 
was  going  on  at  the  point  where  these  notes  take 
it  up. 

“ Ubi  tres  medici , duo  atliei , you  know,  Doctor. 
Your  profession  has  always  had  the  credit  of  be- 
ing lax  in  doctrine,  — though  pretty  stringent  in 
practice , ha  ! ha ! ” 

“ Some  priest  said  that,”  the  Doctor  answered, 
dryly.  “ They  always  talked  Latin  when  they 
had  a bigger  lie  than  common  to  get  rid  of.” 

u Good  ! ” said  the  Reverend  Doctor  ; “ I’m 
afraid  they  would  lie  a little  sometimes.  But 
isn’t  there  some  truth  in  it,  Doctor  ? Don’t  you 
think  your  profession  is  apt  to  see  c Nature  ’ in 
the  place  of  the  God  of  Nature,  — to  lose  sight 
of  the  great  First  Cause  in  their  daily  study  of 
secondary  causes  ? ” 

“ I’ve  thought  about  that,”  the  Doctor  answered, 


106 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


u and  Fve  talked  about  it  and  read  about  it,  and 
Pve  come  to  the  conclusion  that  nobody  believes 
in  God  and  trusts  in  God  quite  so  much  as  the 
doctors ; only  it  isn’t  just  the  sort  of  Deity  that 
some  of  your  profession  have  wanted  them  to 
take  up  with.  There  was  a student  of  mine 
wrote  a dissertation  on  the  Natural  Theology  of 
Health  and  Disease,  and  took  that  old  lying 
proverb  for  his  motto.  He  knew  a good  deal 
more  about  books  than  ever  I did,  and  had 
studied  in  other  countries.  I’ll  tell  you  what  he 
said  about  it.  He  said  the  old  Heathen  Doctor, 
Galen,  praised  God  for  his  handiwork  in  the  hu- 
man body,  just  as  if  he  had  been  a Christian, 
or  the  Psalmist  himself.  He  said  they  had  this 
sentence  set  up  in  large  letters  in  the  great  lec- 
ture-room in  Paris  where  he  attended : I dressed 
his  wound  and  God  healed  him . That  was  an  old 
surgeon’s  saying.  And  he  gave  a long  list  of 
doctors  who  were  not  only  Christians,  but  famous 
ones.  I grant  you,  though,  ministers  and  doctors 
are  very  apt  to  see  differently  in  spiritual  mat- 
ters.” 

“ That’s  it,”  said  the  Reverend  Doctor ; “ you 
are  apt  to  see  4 Nature  ’ where  we  see  God,  and 
appeal  to  4 Science  ’ where  we  are  contented  with 
Revelation.” 

“ We  don’t  separate  God  and  Nature,  perhaps, 
as  you  do,”  the  Doctor  answered.  “ When  we 
say  that  God  is  omnipresent  and  omnipotent  and 
omniscient,  we  are  a little  more  apt  to  mean  it 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


107 


than  your  folks  are.  We  think,  when  a wound 
heals,  that  God’s  presence  and  power  and  knowl- 
edge are  there,  healing  it,  just  as  that  old  sur- 
geon did.  We  think  a good  many  theologians, 
working  among  their  books,  don’t  see  the  facts% 
of  the  world  they  live  in.  When  we  tell  ’em 
of  these  facts,  they  are  apt  to  call  us  material- 
ists and  atheists  and  infidels,  and  all  that.  We 
can’t  help  seeing  the  facts,  and  we  don’t  think 
it’s  wicked  to  mention  ’em.” 

“ Do  tell  me,”  the  Reverend  Doctor  said,  “ some 
of  these  facts  we  are  in  the  habit  of  overlooking, 
and  which  your  profession  thinks  it  can  see  and 
understand.” 

“ That’s  very  easy,”  the  Doctor  replied.  “ For 
instance : you  don’t  understand  or  don’t  allow  for 
idiosyncrasies  as  we  learn  to.  We  know  that 
food  and  physic  act  differently  with  different  peo- 
ple ; but  you  think  the  same  kind  of  truth  is  go- 
ing to  suit,  or  ought  to  suit,  all  minds.  We  don’t 
fight  with  a patient  because  he  can’t  take  mag- 
nesia or  opium ; but  you  are  all  the  time  quar- 
relling over  your  beliefs,  as  if  belief  did  not 
depend  very  much  on  race  and  constitution,  to 
say  nothing  of  early  training.” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  that  every  man  is  not 
absolutely  free  to  choose  his  beliefs  ? ” 

“ The  men  you  write  about  in  your  studies 
are,  but  not  the  men  we  see  in  the  real  world. 
There  is  some  apparently  congenital  defect  in 
the  Indians,  for  instance,  that  keeps  them  from 


108 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


choosing  civilization  and  Christianity.  So  with 
the  Gypsies,  very  likely.  Everybody  knows  that 
Catholicism  or  Protestantism  is  a good  deal  a 
matter  of  race.  Constitution  has  more"  to  do 
with  belief  than  people  think  for.  I went  to  a 
Universalist  church,  when  I was  in  the  city  one 
day,  to  hear  a famous  man  whom  all  the  world 
knows,  and  I never  saw  such  pews-full  of  broad 
shoulders  and  florid  faces,  and  substantial,  whole- 
some-looking persons,  male  and  female,  in  all 
my  life.  Why,  it  was  astonishing.  Either  their 
creed  made  them  healthy,  or  they  chose  it  be- 
cause they  were  healthy.  Your  folks  have  never 
got  the  hang  of  human  nature.” 

“ I am  afraid  this  would  be  considered  a de- 
grading and  dangerous  view  of  human  beliefs 
and  responsibility  for  them,”  the  Reverend  Doc- 
tor replied.  “ Prove  to  a man  that  his  will  is 
governed  by  something  outside  of  himself,  and 
you  have  lost  all  hold  on  his  moral  and  religious 
nature.  There  is  nothing  bad  men  want  to  be- 
lieve so  much  as  that  they  are  governed  by  neces- 
sity. Now  that  which  is  at  once  degrading  and 
dangerous  cannot  be  true.” 

“ No  doubt,”  the  Doctor  replied,  “ all  large 
views  of  mankind  limit  our  estimate  of  the  abso- 
lute freedom  of  the  will.  But  I don’t  think  it 
degrades  or  endangers  us,  for  this  reason,  that, 
while  it  makes  us  charitable  to  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, our  own  sense  of  freedom,  whatever  it  is,  is 
never  affected  by  argument.  Conscience  won't  be ~ 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


109 


reasoned  with . We  feel  that  we  can  practically 
do  this  or  that,  and  if  we  choose  the  wrong,  we 
know  we  are  responsible  ; but  observation  teaches 
us  that  this  or  that  other  race  or  individual  has 
not  the  same  practical  freedom  of  choice.  I don’t 
see  how  we  can  avoid  this  conclusion  in  the  in- 
stance of  the  American  Indians.  The  science  of 
Ethnology  has  upset  a good  many  theoretical  no- 
tions about  human  nature.” 

44  Science  ! ” said  the  Reverend  Doctor,  44  sci- 
ence ! that  was  a word  the  Apostle  Paul  did  not 
seem  to  think  much  of,  if  we  may  judge  by  the 
Epistle  to  Timothy : 4 Oppositions  of  science 
falsely  so  called.’  I own  that  I am  jealous  of  that 
word  and  the  pretensions  that  go  with  it.  Sci- 
ence has  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  often  only  the 
handmaid  of  skepticism.” 

44  Doctor ! ” the  physician  said,  emphatically, 
44  science  is  knowledge.  Nothing  that  is  not 
known  properly  belongs  to  science.  Whenever 
knowledge  obliges  us  to  doubt,  we  are  always 
safe  in  doubting.  Astronomers  foretell  eclipses, 
say  how  long  comets  are  to  stay  with  us,  point 
out  where  a new  planet  is  to  be  found.  We  see 
they  know  what  they  assert,  and  the  poor  old  Ro- 
man Catholic  Church  has  at  last  to  knock  under. 
So  Geology  proves  a certain  succession  of  events, 
and  the  best  Christian  in  the  world  must  make 
the  earth’s  history  square  with  it.  Besides,  I 
don’t  think  you  remember  what  great  revelations 
of  himself  the  Creator  has  made  in  the  minds  of 
the  men  who  have  built  up  science.  You  seem 


110 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


to  me  to  hold  his  human  masterpieces  very  cheap. 
Don’t  you  think  the  ‘ inspiration  of  the  Almighty  ’ 
gave  Newton  and  Cuvier  ‘understanding’?” 

The  Reverend  Doctor  was  not  arguing  for  vic- 
tory. In  fact,  what  he  wanted  was  to  call  out 
the  opinions  of  the  old  physician  by  a show  of 
opposition,  being  already  predisposed  to  agree 
with  many  of  them.  He  was  rather  trying  the 
common  arguments,  as  one  tries  tricks  of  fence 
merely  to  learn  the  way  of  parrying.  But  just 
here  he  saw  a tempting  opening,  and*could  not 
resist  giving  a home-thrust. 

u Yes  ; but  you  surely  would  not  consider  it 
inspiration  of  the  same  kind  as  that  of  the  writers 
of  the  Old  Testament  ? ” 

That  cornered  the  Doctor,  and  he  paused  a mo- 
ment before  he  replied.  Then  he  raised  his  head, 
so  as  to  command  the  Reverend  Doctor’s  face 
through  his  spectacles,  and  said, — 

“ I did  not  say  that.  You  are  clear,  I suppose, 
that  the  Omniscient  spoke  through  Solomon,  but 
that  Shakspeare  wrote  without  his  help  ? ” 

The  Reverend  Doctor  looked  very  grave.  It 
was  a bold,  blunt  way  of  putting  the  question. 
He  turned  it  aside  with  the  remark,  that  Shak- 
speare seemed  to  him  at  times  to  come  as  near 
inspiration  as  any  human  being  not  included 
among  the  sacred  writers. 

“ Doctor,”  the  physician  began,  as  from  a 
sudden  suggestion,  “ you  won’t  quarrel  with  me, 
if  I tell  you  some  of  my  real  thoughts,  will 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Ill 


“ Say  on,  my  dear  Sir,  say  on,”  the  minister 
answered,  with  his  most  genial  smile  ; u your  real 
thoughts  are  just  what  I want  to  get  at.  A man’s 
real  thoughts  are  a great  rarity.  If  I don’t  agree 
with  you,  I shall  like  to  hear  you.” 

The  Doctor  began ; and  in  order  to  give  his 
thoughts  more  connectedly,  we  will  omit  the  con- 
versational breaks,  the  questions  and  comments 
of  the  clergyman,  and  all  accidental  interruptions. 

<£  When  the  old  ecclesiastics  said  that  where 
there  were  three  doctors  there  were  two  atheists, 
they  lied,  of  course.  They  called  everybody  who 
differed  from  them  atheists,  until  they  found  out 
that  not  believing  in  God  wasn’t  nearly  so  ugly  a 
crime  as  not  believing  in  some  particular  dogma  ; 
then  they  called  them  heretics , until  so  many 
good  people  had  been  burned  under  that  name 
that  it  began  to  smell  too  strong  of  roasting  flesh, 
— and  after  that  infidels , which  properly  means 
people  without  faith,  of  whom  there  are  not  a 
great  many  in  any  place  or  time.  But  then,  of 
course,  there  was  some  reason  why  doctors 
shouldn’t  think  about  religion  exactly  as  minis- 
ters did,  or  they  never  would  have  made  that 
proverb.  It’s  very  likely  that  something  of  the 
same  kind  is  true  now ; whether  it  is  so  or  not,  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  the  reasons  why  it  would 
not  be  strange,  if  doctors  should  take  rather  dif- 
ferent views  from  clergymen  about  some  matters 
of  belief.  I don’t,  of  course,  mean  all  doctors 


112 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


nor  all  clergymen.  Some  doctors  go  as  far  as 
any  old  New-England  divine,  and  some  clergy- 
men agree  very  well  with  the  doctors  that  think 
least  according  to  rule. 

“ To  begin  with  their  ideas  of  the  Creator  him- 
self. They  always  see  him  trying  to  help  his 
creatures  out  of  their  troubles.  A man  no  sooner 
gets  a cut,  than  the  Great  Physician,  whose  agen- 
cy we  often  call  Nature , goes  to  work,  first  to  stop 
the  blood,  and  then  to  heal  the  wound,  and  then 
to  make  the  scar  as  small  as  possible.  If  a man’s 
pain  exceeds  a certain  amount,  he  faints,  and  so 
gets  relief.  If  it  lasts  too  long,  habit  comes  in  to 
make  it  tolerable.  If  it  is  altogether  too  bad,  he 
dies.  That  is  the  best  thing  to  be  done  under  the 
circumstances.  So  you  see,  the  doctor  is  con- 
stantly in  presence  of  a benevolent  agency  work- 
ing against  a settled  order  of  things,  of  which 
pain  and  disease  are  the  accidents,  so  to  speak. 
Well,  no  doubt  they  find  it  harder  than  clergymen 
to  believe  that  there  can  be  any  world  or  state 
from  which  this  benevolent  agency  is  wholly  ex- 
cluded. This  may  be  very  wrong ; but  it  is  not 
unnatural.  They  can  hardly  conceive  of  a per- 
manent state  of  being  in  which  cuts  would  never 
try  to  heal,  nor  habit  render  suffering  endurable. 
This  is  one  effect  of  their  training. 

“ Then,  again,  their  attention  is  very  much 
called  to  human  limitations.  Ministers  work  out 
the  machinery  of  responsibility  in  an  abstract  kind 
of  way ; they  have  a sort  of  algebra  of  human 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


113 


nature,  in  which  friction  and  strength  (or  weak- 
ness) of  material  are  left  out.  You  see,  a doctor 
is  in  the  way  of  studying  children  from  the  mo- 
ment of  birth  upwards.  For  the  first  year  or  so 
he  sees  that  they  are  just  as  much  pupils  of  their 
Maker  as  the  young  of  any  other  animals.  Well, 
their  Maker  trains  them  to  pure  selfishness. 
Why  ? In  order  that  they  may  be  sure  to  take 
care  of  themselves.  So  you  see,  when  a child 
comes  to  be,  we  will  say  a year  and  a day  old, 
and  makes  his  first  choice  between  right  and 
wrong,  he  is  at  a disadvantage ; for  he  has  that 
vis  a ter go , as  we  doctors  call  it,  that  force  from 
behind,  of  a whole  year’s  life  of  selfishness,  for 
which  he  is  no  more  to  blame  than  a calf  is  to 
blame  for  having  lived  in  the  same  way,  purely 
to  gratify  his  natural  appetites.  Then  we  see 
that  baby  grow  up  to  a child,  and,  if  he  is  fat  and 
stout  and  red  and  lively,  we  expect  to  find  him 
troublesome  and  noisy,  and,  perhaps,  sometimes 
disobedient  more  or  less ; that’s  the  way  each  new 
generation  breaks  its  egg-shell ; but  if  he  is  very 
weak  and  thin,  and  is  one  of  the  kind  that  may 
be  expected  to  die  early,  he  will  very  likely  sit  in 
the  house  all  day  and  read  good  books  about 
other  little  sharp-faced  children  just  like  himself, 
who  died  early,  having  always  been  perfectly  in- 
different to  all  the  out-door  amusements  of  the 
wicked  little  red-cheeked  children.  Some  of  the 
little  folks  we  watch  grow  up  to  be  young  women, 
and  occasionally  one  of  them  gets  nervous,  what 
8 


VOL.  II. 


114 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


we  call  hysterical,  and  then  that  girl  will  begin  to 
play  all  sorts  of  pranks,  — to  lie  and  cheat,  per- 
haps, in  the  most  unaccountable  way,  so  that  she 
might  seem  to  a minister  a good  example  of  total 
depravity.  We  don’t  see  her  in  that  light.  We 
give  her  iron  and  valerian,  and  get  her  on  horse- 
back, if  we  can,  and  so  expect  to  make  her  will 
come  all  right  again.  By-and-by  we  are  called 
in  to  see  an  old  baby,  threescore  years  and  ten  or 
more  old.  We  find  this  old  baby  has  never  got 
rid  of  that  first  year’s  teaching  which  led  him  to 
fill  his  stomach  with  all  he  could  pump  into  it, 
and  his  hands  with  everything  he  could  grab. 
People  call  him  a miser.  We  are  sorry  for  him; 
but  we  can’t  help  remembering  his  first  year’s 
training,  and  the  natural  effect  of  money  on  the 
great  majority  of  those  that  have  it.  So  while 
the  ministers  say  he  ‘ shall  hardly  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,’  we  like  to  remind  them  that 
‘ with  God  all  things  are  possible.’ 

“ Once  more,  we  see  all  kinds  of  monomania 
and  insanity.  We  learn  from  them  to  recognize 
all  sorts  of  queer  tendencies  in  minds  supposed 
to  be  sane,  so  that  we  have  nothing  but  compas- 
sion for  a large  class  of  persons  condemned  as 
sinners  by  theologians,  but  considered  by  us  as 
invalids.  We  have  constant  reasons  for  noticing 
the  transmission  of  qualities  from  parents  to  off- 
spring, and  we  find  it  hard  to  hold  a child  ac- 
countable in  any  moral  point  of  view  for  inherited 
bad  temper  or  tendency  to  drunkenness,  — as  hard 


ELSIE  VENNEE. 


115 


as  we  should  to  blame  him  for  inheriting  gout  or 
asthma.  I suppose  we  are  more  lenient  with  hu- 
man nature  than  theologians  generally  are.  We 
know  that  the  spirits  of  men  and  their  views  of 
the  present  and  the  future  go  up  and  down  with 
the  barometer,  and  that  a permanent  depression 
of  one  inch  in  the  mercurial  column  would  affect 
the  whole  theology  of  Christendom. 

“ Ministers  talk  about  the  human  will  as  if  it 
stood  on  a high  look-out,  with  plenty  of  light, 
and  elbow-room  reaching  to  the  horizon.  Doc- 
tors are  constantly  noticing  how  it  is  tied  up  and 
darkened  by  inferior  organization,  by  disease,  and 
all  sorts  of  crowding  interferences,  until  they  get 
to  look  upon  Hottentots  and  Indians  — and  a 
good  many  of  their  own  race  — as  a kind  of  self- 
conscious  blood-clocks  with  very  limited  power 
of  self-determination.  That’s  the  tendency , I say, 
of  a doctor’s  experience.  But  the  people  to  whom 
they  address  their  statements  of  the  results  of 
their  observation  belong  to  the  thinking  class  of 
the  highest  races,  and  they  are  conscious  of  a 
great  deal  of  liberty  of  will.  So  in  the  face  of 
the  fact  that  civilization  with  all  it  offers  has 
proved  a dead  failure  with  the  aboriginal  races  of 
this  country,  — on  the  whole,  I say,  a dead  fail- 
ure, — they  talk  as  if  they  knew  from  their  own 
will  all  about  that  of  a Digger  Indian!  We  are 
more  apt  to  go  by  observation  of  the  facts  in  the 
case.  We  are  constantly  seeing  weakness  where 
you  see  depravity.  I don’t  say  we’re  right;  I 


116 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


only  tell  what  you  must  often  find  to  be  the  fact, 
right  or  wrong,  in  talking  with  doctors.  You  see, 
too,  our  notions  of  bodily  and  moral  disease,  or 
sin,  are  apt  to  go  together.  We  used  to  be  as  hard 
on  sickness  as  you  were  on  sin.  We  know  better 
now.  We  don’t  look  at  sickness  as  we  used  to, 
and  try  to  poison  it  with  everything  that  is  offen- 
sive,— burnt  toads  and  earth-worms  and  viper- 
broth,  and  worse  things  than  these.  We  know 
that  disease  has  something  back  of  it  which  the 
body  isn’t  to  blame  for,  at  least  in  most  cases, 
and  which  very  often  it  is  trying  to  get  rid  of. 
Just  so  with  sin.  I will  agree  to  take  a hundred 
new-born  babes  of  a certain  stock  and  return 
seventy-five  of  them  in  a dozen  years  true  and 
honest,  if  not  { pious  ’ children.  And  I will  take 
another  hundred,  of  a different  stock,  and  put 
them  in  the  hands  of  certain  Ann- Street  or  Five- 
Points  teachers,  and  seventy-five  of  them  will  be 
thieves  and  liars  at  the  end  of  the  same  dozen 
years.  I have  heard  of  an  old  character,  Colonel 
Jaques,  I believe  it  was,  a famous  cattle-breeder, 
who  used  to  say  he  could  breed  to  pretty  Intich 
any  pattern  he  wanted  to.  Well,  we  doctors  see 
so  much  of  families,  how  the  tricks  of  the  blood 
keep  breaking  out,  just  as  much  in  character  as 
they  do  in  looks,  that  we  can’t  help  feeling  as  if 
a great  many  people  hadn’t  a fair  chance  to  be 
what  is  called  6 good,’  and  that  there  isn’t  a text 
in  the  Bible  better  worth  keepipg  always  in  mind 
than  that  one,  6 Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not 
judged.’ 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


117 


u As  for  our  getting  any  quarter  at  the  hands 
of  theologians,  we  don’t  expect  it,  and  have  no 
right  to.  You  don’t  give  each  other  any  quarter. 
I have  had  two  religious  books  sent  me  by  friends 
within  a week  or  two.  One  is  Mr.  Brownson’s ; 
he  is  as  fair  and  square  as  Euclid  ; a real  honest, 
strong  thinker,  and  one  that  knows  what  he  is 
talking  about,  — for  he  has  tried  all  sorts  of  re- 
ligions, pretty  much.  He  tells  us  that  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  is  the  one  4 through  which  alone 
we  can  hope  for  heaven.’  The  other  is  by  a 
worthy  Episcopal  rector,  who  appears  to  write  as 
if  he  were  in  earnest,  and  he  calls  the  Papacy  the 
4 Devil’s  Masterpiece,’  and  talks  about  the  4 Sa- 
tanic scheme’  of  that  very  Church  4 through 
which  alone,’  as  Mr.  Brownson  tells  us,  4 we  can 
hope  for  heaven’!  What’s  the  use  in  our  caring 
about  hard  words  after  this,  — 4 atheists,’  heretics, 
infidels,  and  the  like  ? They’re,  after  all,  only 
the  cinders  picked  up  out  of  those  heaps  of  ashes 
round  the  stumps  of  the  old  stakes  where  they 
used  to  burn  men,  women,  and  children  for  not 
thinking  just  like  other  folks.  They’ll  4 crock  ’ 
your  fingers,  but  they  can’t  burn  us. 

44  Doctors  are  the  best-natured  people  in  the 
world,  except  when  they  get  fighting  with  each 
other.  And  they  have  some  advantages  over 
you.  You  inherit  your  notions  from  a set  of 
priests  that  had  no  wives  and  no  children,  or 
none  to  speak  of,  and  so  let  their  humanity  die 
out  of  them.  It  didn’t  seem  much  to  them  to 


118 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


condemn  a-  few  thousand  millions  of  people  to 
purgatory  or  worse  for  a mistake  of  judgment. 
They  didn’t  know  what  it  was  to  have  a child 
look  up  in  their  faces  and  say  ‘ Father ! 9 It  will 
take  you  a hundred  or  two  more  years  to  get  de- 
cently humanized,  after  so  many  centuries  of  de- 
humanizing celibacy. 

“ Besides,  though  our  libraries  are,  perhaps,  not 
commonly  quite  so  big  as  yours,  God  opens  one 
book  to  physicians  that  a good  many  of  you 
don’t  know  much  about,  — the  Book  of  Life. 
That  is  none  of  your  dusty  folios  with  black 
letters  between  pasteboard  and  leather,  but  it  is 
printed  in  bright  red  type,  and  the  binding  of  it 
is  warm  and  tender  to  every  touch.  They  rever- 
ence that  book  as  one  of  the  Almighty’s  infallible 
revelations.  They  will  insist  on  reading  you  les- 
sons out  of  it,  whether  you  call  them  names  or 
not.  These  will  always  be  lessons  of  charity. 
No  doubt,  nothing  can  be  more  provoking  to 
listen  to.  But  do  beg  your  folks  to  remember 
that  the  Smithfield  fires  are  all  out,  and  that  the 
cinders  are  very  dirty  and  not  in  the  least  danger- 
ous. They’d  a great  deal  better  be  civil,  and  not 
be  throwing  old  proverbs  in  the  doctors’  faces, 
when  they  say  that  the  man  of  the  old  monkish 
notions  is  one  thing  and  the  man  they  watch 
from  his  cradle  to  his  coffin  is  something  very 
different.” 

It  has  cost  a good  deal  of  trouble  to  work  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


119 


Doctor’s  talk  up  into  this  formal  shape.  Some 
of  his  sentences  have  been  rounded  off  for  him, 
and  the  whole  brought  into  a more  rhetorical 
form  than  it  could  have  pretended  to,  if  taken 
as  it  fell  from  his  lips.  But  the  exact  course  of 
his  remarks  has  been  followed,  and  as  far  as  pos- 
sible his  expressions  have  been  retained.  Though 
given  in  the  form  of  a discourse,  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  this  was  a conversation,  much 
more  fragmentary  and  colloquial  than  it  seems 
as  just  read. 

The  Reverend  Doctor  was  very  far  from  taking 
offence  nt  the  old  physician’s  freedom  of  speech. 
He  knew  him  to  be  honest,  kind,  charitable,  self- 
denying,  wherever  any  sorrow  was  to  be  alleviat- 
ed, always  reverential,  with  a cheerful  trust  in  the 
great  Father  of  all  mankind.  To  be  sure,  his 
senior  deacon,  old  Deacon  Shearer,  — who  seemed 
to  have  got  his  Scripture-teachings  out  of  the 
“ Vinegar  Bible,”  (the  one  where  Vineyard  is 
misprinted  Vinegar , which  a good  many  people 
seem  to  have  adopted  as  the  true  reading,)  — his 
senior  deacon  had  called  Dr.  Kittredge  an  “ infi- 
del.” But  the  Reverend  Doctor  could  not  help 
feeling,  that,  unless  the  text,  “ By  their  fruits  ye 
shall  know  them,”  were  an  interpolation,  the 
Doctor  was  the  better  Christian  of  the  two. 
Whatever  his  senior  deacon  might  think  about 
it,  he  said  to  himself  that  he  shouldn’t  be  sur- 
prised if  he  met  the  Doctor  in  heaven  yet,  inquir- 
ing anxiously  after  old  Deacon  Shearer. 


120 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


He  was  on  the  point  of  expressing  himself  very 
frankly  to  the  Doctor,  with  that  benevolent  smile 
on  his  face  which  had  sometimes  come  near 
giving  offence  to  the  readers  of  the  “ Vinegar” 
edition,  but  he  saw  that  the  physician’s  attention 
had  been  arrested  by  Elsie.  He  looked  in  the 
same  direction  himself,  and  could  not  help  being 
struck  by  her  attitude  and  expression.  There 
was  something  singularly  graceful  in  the  curves 
of  her  neck  and  the  rest  of  her  figure,  but  she 
was  so  perfectly  still  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
hardly  breathing.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
young  girl  with  whom  Mr.  Bernard  was  talking. 
He  had  often  noticed  their  brilliancy,  but  now  it 
seemed  to  him  that  they  appeared  dull,  and  the 
look  on  her  features  was  as  of  some  passion 
which  had  missed  its  stroke.  Mr.  Bernard’s 
companion  seemed  unconscious  that  she  was 
the  object  of  this  attention,  and  was  listening 
to  the  young  master  as  if  he  had  succeeded  in 
making  himself  very  agreeable. 

Of  course  Dick  Venner  had  not  mistaken  the 
game  that  was  going  on..  The  school-master 
meant  to  make  Elsie  jealous,  — and  he  had  done 
it.  That’s  it : get  her  savage  first,  and  then  come 
wheedling  round  her,  — a sure  trick,  if  he  isn’t 
headed  off  somehow.  But  Dick  saw  well  enough 
that  he  had  better  let  Elsie  alone  just  now,  and 
thought  the  best  way  of  killing  the  evening  would 
be  to  amuse  himself  in  a little  lively  talk  with 
Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  and  incidentally  to  show 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


121 


Elsie  that  he  could  make  himself  acceptable  to 
other  women,  if  not  to  herself. 

The  Doctor  presently  went  up  to  Elsie,  deter- 
mined to  engage  her  in  conversation  and  get  her 
out  of  her  thoughts,  which  he  saw,  by  her  look, 
were  dangerous.  Her  father  had  been  on  the 
point  of  leaving  Helen  Darley  to  go  to  her,  but 
felt  easy  enough  when  he  saw  the  old  Doctor  at 
her  side,  and  so  went  on  talking.  The  Reverend 
Doctor,  being  now  left  alone,  engaged  the  Widow 
Rowens,  who  put  the  best  face  on  her  vexation 
she  could,  but  was  devoting  herself  to  all  the 
underground  deities  for  having  been  such  a fool 
as  to  ask  that  pale-faced  thing  from  the  Institute 
to  fill  up  her  party. 

There  is  no  space  left  to  report  the  rest  of  the 
conversation.  If  there  was  anything  of  any  sig- 
nificance in  it,  it  will  turn  up  by-and-by,  no  dQubt. 
At  ten  o’clock  the  Reverend  Doctor  called  Miss 
Letty,  who  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late ; Mr.  Ber- 
nard gave  his  arm  to  Helen ; Mr.  Richard  saw  to 
Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer;  the  Doctor  gave  Elsie  a 
cautioning  look,  and  went  off  alone,  thoughtful ; 
Dudley  Venner  and  his  daughter  got  into  their 
carriage  and  were  whirled  away.  The  Widow’s 
gambit  was  played,  and  she  had  not  won  the 
game. 


122 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 

The  young  master  had  not  forgotten  the  old 
Doctor’s  cautions.  Without  attributing  any  great 
importance  to  the  warning  he  had  given  him, 
Mr.  Bernard  had  so  far  complied  with  his  advice 
that  he  was  becoming  a pretty  good  shot  with 
the  pistol.  It  was  an  amusement  as  good  as 
many  others  to  practise,  and  he  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  it  after  the  first  few  days. 

The  popping  of  a pistol  at  odd  hours  in  the 
back-yard  of  the  Institute  was  a phenomenon 
more  than  sufficiently  remarkable  to  be  talked 
about  in  Rockland.  The  viscous  intelligence  of 
a country-village  is  not  easily  stirred  by  the 
winds  which  ripple  the  fluent  thought  of  great 
cities,  but  it  holds  every  straw  and  entangles 
every  insect  that  lights  upon  it.  It  soon  became 
rumored  in  the  town  that  the  young  master  was 
a wonderful  shot  with  the  pistol.  Some  said  he 
could  hit  a fo’pence-ha’penny  at  three  rod  ; some, 
that  he  had  shot  a swallow,  flying,  with  a single 
ball ; some,  that  he  snuffed  a candle  five  times 
out  of  six  at  ten  paces,  and  that  he  could  hit 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


123 


any  button  in  a man’s  coat  he  wanted  to.  In 
other  words,  as  in  all  such  cases,  all  the  common 
feats  were  ascribed  to  him,  as  the  current  jokes 
of  the  day  are  laid  at  the  door  of  any  noted  wit, 
however  innocent  he  may  be  of  them. 

In  the  natural  course  of  things,  Mr.  Richard 
Venner,  who  had  by  this  time  made  some  ac- 
quaintances, as  we  have  seen,  among  that  class 
of  the  population  least  likely  to  allow  a live 
cinder  of  gossip  to  go  out  for  want  of  air,  had 
heard  incidentally  that  the  master  up  there  at  the 
Institute  was  all  the  time  practising  with  a pistol, 
that  they  say  he  can  snuff  a candle  at  ten  rods, 
(that  was  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer’s  version,)  and 
that  he  could  hit  anybody  he  wanted  to  right  in 
the  eye,  as  far  as  he  could  see  the  white  of  it. 

Dick  did  not  like  the  sound  of  all  this  any  too 
well.  Without  believing  more  than  half  of  it, 
there  was  enough  to  make  the  Yankee  school- 
master too  unsafe  to  be  trilled  with.  However, 
shooting  at  a mark  was  pleasant  work  enough  ; 
he  had  no  particular  objection  to  it  himself. 
Only  he  did  not  care  so  much  for  those  little 
popgun  affairs  that  a man  carries  in  his  pocket, 
and  with  which  you  couldn’t  shoot  a fellow, — 
a robber,  say,  — without  getting  the  muzzle  under 
his  nose.  Pistols  for  boys;  long-range  rifles  for 
men.  There  was  such  a gun  lying  in  a closet 
with  the  fowling-pieces.  He  would  go  out  into 
the  fields  and  see  what  he  could  do  as  a marks- 


man. 


124 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


The  nature  of  the  mark  which  Dick  chose  for 
experimenting  upon  was  singular.  He  had  found 
some  panes  of  glass  which  had  been  removed 
from  an  old  sash,  and  he  placed  these  succes- 
sively before  his  target,  arranging  them  at  differ- 
ent angles.  He  found  that  a bullet  would  go 
through  the  glass  without  glancing  or  having  its 
force  materially  abated.  It  was  an  interesting 
fact  in  physics,  and  might  prove  of  some  prac- 
tical significance  hereafter.  Nobody  knows  what 
may  turn  up  to  render  these  out-of-the-way  facts 
useful.  All  this  was  done  in  a quiet  way  in  one 
of  the  bare  spots  high  up  the  side  of  The  Moun- 
tain. He  was  very  thoughtful  in  taking  the  pre- 
caution to  get  so  far  away  ; rifle-bullets  are  apt 
to  glance  and  come  whizzing  about  people’s  ears, 
if  they  are  fired  in  the  neighborhood  of  houses. 
Dick  satisfied  himself  that  he  could  be  tolerably 
sure  of  hitting  a pane  of  glass  at  a distance  of 
thirty  rods,  more  or  less,  and  that,  if  there  hap- 
pened to  be  anything  behind  it,  the  glass  would 
not  materially  alter  the  force  or  direction  of  the 
bullet. 

About  this  time  it  occurred  to  him  also  that 
there  was  an  old  accomplishment  of  his  which 
he  would  be  in  danger  of  losing  for  want  of 
practice,  if  he  did  not  take  some  opportunity  to 
try  his  hand  and  regain  its  cunning,  if  it  had  be- 
gun to  be  diminished  by  disuse.  For  his  first 
trial,  he  chose  an  evening  when  the  moon  was 
shining,  and  after  the  hour  when  the  Rockland 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


125 


people  were  like  to  be  stirring  abroad.  He  was 
so  far  established  now  that  he  could  do  much  as 
he  pleased  without  exciting  remark. 

The  prairie  horse  he  rode,  the  mustang  of  the 
Pampas,  wild  as  he  was,  had  been  trained  to  take 
part  in  at  least  one  exercise.  This  was  the 
accomplishment  in  which  Mr.  Richard  now  pro- 
posed to  try  himself.  For  this  purpose  he  sought 
the  implement  of  which,  as  it  may  be  remem- 
bered, he  had  once  made  an  incidental  use,  — the 
lasso , or  long  strip  of  hide  with  a slip-noose  at 
the  end  of  it.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  play- 
ing with  such  a thong  from  his  boyhood,  and  had 
become  expert  in  its  use  in  capturing  wild  cattle 
in  the  course  of  his  adventures.  Unfortunately, 
there  were  no  wild  bulls  likely  to  be  met  with  in 
the  neighborhood,  to  become  the  subjects  of  his 
skill.  A stray  cow  in  the  road,  an  ox  or  a horse 
in  a pasture,  must  serve  his  turn, — dull  beasts, 
but  moving  marks  to  aim  at,  at  any  rate. 

Never,  since  he  had  galloped  in  the  chase  over 
the  Pampas,  had  Dick  Venner  felt  such  a sense 
of  life  and  power  as  when  he  struck  the  long 
spurs  into  his  wild  horse’s  flanks,  and  dashed 
along  the  road  with  the  lasso  lying  like  a coiled 
snake  at  the  saddle-bow.  In  skilful  hands,  the 
silent,  bloodless  noose,  flying  like  an  arrow,  but 
not  like  that  leaving  a wound  behind  it,  — sud- 
den as  a pistol-shot,  but  without  the  tell-tale 
explosion, — is  one  of  the  most  fearful  and  mys- 
terious weapons  that  arm  the  hand  of  man.  The 


126 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


old  Romans  knew  how  formidable,  even  in  con- 
test with  a gladiator  equipped  with  sword,  helmet, 
and  shield,  was  the  almost  naked  retiarius , with 
his  net  in  one  hand  and  his  three-pronged  javelin 
in  the  other.  Once  get  a net  over  a man’s  head, 
or  a cord  round  his  neck,  or,  what  is  more  fre- 
quently done  nowadays,  bonnet  him  by  knocking 
his  hat  down  over  his  eyes,  and  he  is  at  the 
mercy  of  his  opponent.  Our  soldiers  wTho  served 
against  the  Mexicans  found  this  out  too  well. 
Many  a poor  fellow7  has  been  lassoed  by  the  fierce 
riders  from  the  plains,  and  fallen  an  easy  victim 
to  the  captor  who  had  snared  him  in  the  fatal 
noose. 

But,  imposing  as  the  sight  of  the  wild  hunts- 
men of  the  Pampas  might  have  been,  Dick  could 
not  help  laughing  at  the  mock  sublimity  of  his 
situation,  as  he  tried  his  first  experiment  on  an 
unhappy  milky  mother  who  had  strayed  from  her 
herd  and  w7as  wandering  disconsolately  along 
the  road,  laying  the  dust,  as  she  wrent,  with 
thready  streams  from  her  swollen,  swinging  ud- 
ders. “ Here  goes  the  Don  at  the  windmill ! ” 
said  Dick,  and  tilted  full  speed  at  her,  whirling 
the  lasso  round  his  head  as  he  rode.  The  crea- 
ture swerved  to  one  side  of  the  wTay,  as  the  wild 
horse  and  his  rider  came  rushing  down  upon 
her,  and  presently  turned  and  ran,  as  only  cow7s 

and it  wouldn’t  be  safe  to  say  it  — can  run. 

Just  before  he  passed,  — at  twenty  or  thirty  feet 
from  her,  — the  lasso  shot  from  his  hand,  un- 


ELSIE  YENNER.  127 

* 

coiling  as  it  flew,  and  in  an  instant  its  loop  was 
round  her  horns.  “ Well  cast ! ” said  Dick,  as 
he  galloped  up  to  her  side  and  dexterously  dis- 
engaged  the  lasso.  “ Now  for  a horse  on  the 
run  ! ” 

He  had  the  good  luck  to  find  one,  presently, 
grazing  in  a pasture  at  the  road-side.  Taking 
down  the  rails  of  the  fence  at  one  point,  he  drove 
the  horse  into  the  road  and  gave  chase.  It  was 
a lively  young  animal  enough,  and  was  easily 
roused  to  a pretty  fast  pace.  As  his  gallop  grew 
more  and  more  rapid,  Dick  gave  the  reins  to  the 
mustang,  until  the  two  horses  stretched  them- 
selves out  in  their  longest  strides.  If  the  first 
feat  looked  like  play,  the  one  he  was  now  to 
attempt  had  a good  deal  the  appearance  of  real 
work.  He  touched  the  mustang  with  the  spur, 
and  in  a few  fierce  leaps  found  himself  nearly 
abreast  of  the  frightened  animal  he  was  chasing. 
Once  more  he  whirled  the  lasso  round  and  round 
over  his  head,  and  then  shot  it  forth,  as  the 
rattlesnake  shoots  his  head  from  the  loops  against 
which  it  rests.  The  noose  was  round  the  horse’s 
neck,  and  in  another  instant  was  tightened  so 
as  almost  to  stop  his  breath.  The  prairie  horse 
knew  the  trick  of  the  cord,  and  leaned  away 
from  the  captive,  so  as  to  keep  the  thong  tensely 
stretched  between  his  neck  and  the  peak  of  the 
saddle  to  which  it  was  fastened.  Struggling  was 
of  no  use  with  a halter  round  his  windpipe,  and 
he  very  soon  began  to  tremble  and  stagger,  — 


128 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


blind,  no  doubt,  and  with  a roaring  in  his  ears  as 
of  a thousand  battle-trumpets,  — at  any  rate, 
subdued  and  helpless.  That  was  enough.  Dick 
loosened  his  lasso,  wound  it  up  again,  laid  it  like 
a pet  snake  in  a coil  at  his  saddle-bow,  turned 
his  horse,  and  rode  slowly  along  towards  the 
mansion-house. 

The  place  had  never  looked  more  stately  and 
beautiful  to  him  than  as  he  now  saw  it  in  the 
moonlight.  The  undulations  of  the  land,  — the 
grand  mountain-screen  which  sheltered  the  man- 
sion from  the  northern  blasts,  rising  with  all  its 
hanging  forests  and  parapets  of  naked  rock  high 
towards  the  heavens,  — the  ancient  mansion,  with 
its  square  chimneys,  and  body-guard  of  old  trees, 
and  cincture  of  low  walls  with  marble-pillared 
gateways,  — the  fields,  with  their  various  cover- 
ings,— the  beds  of  flowers, — the  plots  of  turf, 
one  with  a gray  column  in  its  centre  bearing  a 
sun-dial  on  which  the  rays  of  the  moon  were  idly 
shining,  another  with  a white  stone  and  a nar- 
row ridge  of  turf,  — over  all  these  objects,  har- 
monized with  all  their  infinite  details  into  one 
fair  whole  by  the  moonlight,  the  prospective  heir, 
as  he  deemed  himself,  looked  with  admiring  eyes. 

But  while  he  looked,  the  thought  rose  up  in 
his  mind  like  waters  from  a poisoned  fountain, 
that  there  was  a deep  plot  laid  to  cheat  him  of 
the  inheritance  which  by  a double  claim  he  meant 
to  call  his  own.  Every  day  this  ice-cold  beauty, 
this  dangerous,  handsome  cousin  of  his,  went  up 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


129 


to  that  place,  — that  usher’s  girl-trap.  Every  day, 
— regularly  now,  — it  used  to  be  different.  Did 
she  go  only  to  get  out  of  his,  her  cousin’s,  reach  ? 
Was  she  not  rather  becoming  more  and  more  in- 
volved in  the  toils  of  this  plotting  Yankee  ? 

If  Mr.  Bernard  had  shown  himself  at  that  mo- 
ment a few  rods  in  advance,  the  chances  are  that 
in  less  than  one  minute  he  would  have  found 
himself  with  a noose  round  his  neck,  at  the  heels 
of  a mounted  horseman.  Providence  spared  him 
for  the  present.  Mr.  Richard  rode  his  horse 
quietly  round  to  the  stable,  put  him  up,  and  pro- 
ceeded towards  the  house.  He  got  to  his  bed 
without  disturbing  the  family,  but  could  not 
sleep.  The  idea  had  fully  taken  possession  of 
his  mind  that  a deep  intrigue  was  going  on  which 
would  end  by  bringing  Elsie  and  the  school-mas- 
ter into  relations  fatal  to  all  his  own  hopes.  With 
that  ingenuity  which  always  accompanies  jeal- 
ousy, he  tortured  every  circumstance  of  the  last 
few  weeks  so  as  to  make  it  square  with  this  be- 
lief. From  this  vein  of  thought  he  naturally  passed 
to  a consideration  of  every  possible  method  by 
which  the  issue  he  feared  might  be  avoided. 

Mr.  Richard  talked  very  plain  language  with 
himself  in  all  these  inward  colloquies.  Suppos- 
ing it  came  to  the  worst,  what  could  be  done 
then  ? First,  an  accident  might  happen  to  the 
school- master  which  should  put  a complete  and 
final  check  upon  his  projects  and  contrivances. 
The  particular  accident  which  might  interrupt  his 

VOL.  II.  9 


130 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


career  must,  evidently,  be  determined  by  circum- 
stances; but  it  must  be  of  a nature  to  explain 
itself  without  the  necessity  of  any  particular  per- 
son’s becoming  involved  in  the  matter.  It  would 
be  unpleasant  to  go  into  particulars  ; but  every- 
body knows  well  enough  that  men  sometimes 
get  in  the  way  of  a stray  bullet,  and  that  young 
persons  occasionally  do  violence  to  themselves  in 
various  modes,  — by  fire-arms,  suspension,  and 
other  means,  — in  consequence  of  disappoint- 
ment in  love,  perhaps,  oftener  than  from  other 
motives.  There  was  still  another  kind  of  acci- 
dent which  might  serve  his  purpose.  If  anything 
should  happen  to  Elsie,  it  would  be  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  that  his  uncle  should 
adopt  him,  his  nephew  and  only  near  relation,  as 
his  heir.  Unless,  indeed,  Uncle  Dudley  should 
take  it  into  his  head  to  marry  again.  In  that 
case,  where  would  he,  Dick,  be  ? This  was  the 
most  detestable  complication  which  he  could 
conceive  of.  And  yet  he  had  noticed  — he  could 
not  help  noticing  — that  his  uncle  had  been  very 
attentive  to,  and,  as  it  seemed,  very  much  pleased 
with,  that  young  woman  from  the  school.  What 
did  that  mean  ? Was  it  possible  that  he  was 
going  to  take  a fancy  to  her  ? 

It  made  him  wild  to  think  of  all  the  several 
contingencies  which  might  defraud  him  of  that 
good-fortune  which  seemed  but  just  now  within 
his  grasp.  He  glared  in  the  darkness  at  imag- 
inary faces:  sometimes  at  that  of  the  handsome, 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


131 


treacherous  school-master ; sometimes  at  that  of 
the  meek-looking,  but,  no  doubt,  scheming,  lady- 
teacher  ; sometimes  at  that  of  the  dark  girl  whom 
he  was  ready  to  make  his  wife  ; sometimes  at 
that  of  his  much  respected  uncle,  who,  of  course, 
could  not  be  allowed  to  peril  the  fortunes  of  his 
relatives  by  forming  a new  connection.  It  was 
a frightful  perplexity  in  which  he  found  himself, 
because  there  was  no  one  single  life  an  accident 
to  which  would  be  sufficient  to  insure  the  fitting 
and  natural  course  of  descent  to  the  great  Dud- 
ley property.  If  it  had  been  a simple  question 
of  helping  forward  a casualty  to  any  one  person, 
there  was  nothing  in  Dick’s  habits  of  thought  and 
living  to  make  that  a serious  difficulty.  He  had 
been  so  much  with  lawless  people,  that  a life  be- 
tween his  wish  and  his  object  seemed  only  as  an 
obstacle  to  be  removed,  provided  the  object  were 
worth  the  risk  and  trouble.  But  if  there  were 
two  or  three  lives  in  the  way,  manifestly  that  al- 
tered the  case. 

His  Southern  blood  was  getting  impatient. 
There  was  enough  of  the  New-Englander  about 
him  to  make  him  calculate  his  chances  before  he 
struck ; but  his  plans  were  liable  to  be  defeated 
at  any  moment  by  a passionate  impulse  such  as 
the  dark-hued  races  of  Southern  Europe  and  their 
descendants  are  liable  to.  He  lay  in  his  bed, 
sometimes  arranging  plans  to  meet  the  various 
difficulties  already  mentioned,  sometimes  getting 
into  a paroxysm  of  blind  rage  in  the  perplexity 


132 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


of  considering  what  object  he  should  select  as  the 
one  most  clearly  in  his  way.  On  the  whole, 
there  could  be  no  doubt  where  the  most  threat- 
ening of  all  his  embarrassments  lay.  It  was  in 
the  probable  growing  relation  between  Elsie  and 
the  school-master.  If  it  should  prove,  as  it  seemed 
likely,  that  there  was  springing  up  a serious  at- 
tachment tending  to  a union  between  them,  he 
knew  what  he  should  do,  if  he  was  not  quite  so 
sure  how  he  should  do  it. 

There  was  one  thing  at  least  which  might 
favor  his  projects,  and  which,  at  any  rate,  would 
serve  to  amuse  him.  He  could,  by  a little  quiet 
observation,  find  out  what  were  the  school-mas- 
ter’s habits  of  life  : whether  he  had  any  routine 
which  could  be  calculated  upon  ; and  under  what 
circumstances  a strictly  private  interview  of  a 
few  minutes  with  him  might  be  reckoned  on,  in 
case  it  should  be  desirable.  He  could  also  very 
probably  learn  some  facts  about  Elsie  : whether 
the  young  man  was  in  the  habit  of  attending  her 
on  her  way  home  from  school ; whether  she 
stayed  about  the  school-room  after  the  other  girls 
had  gone  ; and  any  incidental  matters  of  interest 
which  might  present  themselves. 

He  was  getting  more  and  more  restless  foi 
want  of  some  excitement.  A mad  gallop,  a visit 
to  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  who  had  taken  such 
a fancy  to  him,  or  a chat  with  the  Widow  Bow- 
ens, who  was  very  lively  in  her  talk,  for  all  her 
sombre  colors,  and  reminded  him  a good  deal  of 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


133 


some  of  his  earlier  friends,  the  senoritas , — all 
these  were  distractions,  to  be  sure,  but  not  enough 
to  keep  his  fiery  spirit  from  fretting  itself  in  long- 
ings for  more  dangerous  excitements.  The  thought 
of  getting  a knowledge  of  all  Mr.  Bernard’s  ways, 
so  that  he  would  be  in  his  power  at  any  moment, 
was  a happy  one. 

For  some  days  after  this  he  followed  Elsie  at  a 
long  distance  behind,  to  watch  her  until  she  got 
to  the  school-house.  One  day  he  saw  Mr.  Ber- 
nard join  her:  a mere  accident,  very  probably, 
for  it  was  only  once  this  happened.  She  came 
on  her  homeward  way  alone,  — quite  apart  from 
the  groups  of  girls  who  strolled  out  of  the  school- 
house  yard  in  company.  Sometimes  she  was  be- 
hind them  all,  — which  was  suggestive.  Could 
she  have  stayed  to  meet  the  school-master  ? 

If  he  could  have  smuggled  himself  into  the 
school,  he  would  have  liked  to  watch  her  there, 
and  see  if  there  was  not  some  understanding 
between  her  and  the  master  which  betrayed  itself 
by  look  or  word.  But  this  was  beyond  the  limits 
of  his  audacity,  and  he  had  to  content  himself 
with  such  cautious  observations  as  could  be  made 
at  a distance.  With  the  aid  of  a pocket-glass  he 
could  make  out  persons  without  the  risk  of  being 
observed  himself. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham’s  corps  of  instructors  was 
not  expected  to  be  off*  duty  or  to  stand  at  ease 
for  any  considerable  length  of  time.  Sometimes 
Mr.  Bernard,  who  had  more  freedom  than  the 


134 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


rest,  would  go  out  for  a ramble  in  the  daytime ; 
but  more  frequently  it  would  be  in  the  evening, 
after  the  hour  of  “ retiring,”  as  bedtime  was  ele- 
gantly termed  by  the  young  ladies  of  the  Apol- 
linean  Institute.  He  would  then  not  unfrequently 
walk  out  alone  in  the  common  roads,  or  climb  up 
the  sides  of  The  Mountain,  which  seemed  to  be 
one  of  his  favorite  resorts.  Here,  of  course,  it 
was  impossible  to  follow  him  with  the  eye  at  a 
distance.  Dick  had  a hideous,  gnawing  suspicion 
that  somewhere  in  these  deep  shades  the  school- 
master might  meet  Elsie,  whose  evening  wander- 
ings he  knew  so  well.  But  of  this  he  was  not 
able  to  assure  himself.  Secrecy  was  necessary  to 
his  present  plans,  and  he  could  not  compromise 
himself  by  over-eager  curiosity.  One  thing  he 
learned  with  certainty.  The  master  returned, 
after  his  walk  one  evening,  and  entered  the  build- 
ing where  his  room  was  situated.  Presently  a 
light  betrayed  the  window  of  his  apartment. 
From  a wooded  bank,  some  thirty  or  forty  rods 
from  this  building,  Dick  Yenner  could  see  the 
interior  of  the  chamber,  and  watch  the  master 
as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  the  light  falling  strongly 
upon  his  face,  intent  upon  the  book  or  manuscript 
before  him.  Dick  contemplated  him  very  long  in 
this  attitude.  The  sense  of  watching  his  every 
motion,  himself  meanwhile  utterly  unseen,  was 
delicious.  How  little  the  master  was  thinking 
what  eyes  were  on  him  ! 

Well,  — there  were  two  things  quite  certain. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


135 


One  was,  that,  if  he  chose,  he  could  meet  the 
school-master  alone,  either  in  the  road  or  in  a 
more  solitary  place,  if  he  preferred  to  watch  his 
chance  for  an  evening  or  two.  The  other  was, 
that  he  commanded  his  position,  as  he  sat  at  his 
desk  in  the  evening,  in  such  a way  that  there 
would  be  very  little  difficulty,  — so  far  as  that 
went ; of  course,  however,  silence  is  always  pref- 
erable to  noise,  and  there  is  a great  difference  in 
the  marks  left  by  different  casualties.  Very  likely 
nothing  would  come  of  all  this  espionage  ; but, 
at  any  rate,  the  first  thing  to  be  done  with  a man 
you  want  to  have  in  your  power  is  to  learn  his 
habits. 

Since  the  tea-party  at  the  Widow  Rowens’s, 
Elsie  had  been  more  fitful  and  moody  than  ever. 
Dick  understood  all  this  well  enough,  you  know. 
It  was  the  working  of  her  jealousy  against  that 
young  school-girl  to  whom  the  master  had  de- 
voted himself  for  the  sake  of  piquing  the  heiress 
of  the  Dudley  mansion.  Was  it  possible,  in  any 
way,  to  exasperate  her  irritable  nature  against 
him,  and  in  this  way  to  render  her  more  accessi- 
ble to  his  own  advances  ? It  was  difficult  to  in- 
fluence her  at  all.  She  endured  his  company 
without  seeming  to  enjoy  it.  She  watched  him 
with  that  strange  look  of  hers,  sometimes  as  if 
she  were  on  her  guard  against  him,  sometimes  as 
if  she  would  like  to  strike  at  him  as  in  that  fit  of 
childish  passion.  She  ordered  him  about  with  a 
haughty  indifference  which  reminded  him  of  his 


136 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


own  way  with  the  dark-eyed  women  whom  he 
had  known  so  well  of'old.  All  this  added  a secret 
pleasure  to  the  other  motives  he  had  for  worry- 
ing her  with  jealous  suspicions.  He  knew  she 
brooded  silently  on  any  grief  that  poisoned  her 
comfort,  — that  she  fed  on  it,  as  it  were,  until  it 
ran  with  every  drop  of  blood  in  her  veins,  — and 
that,  except  in  some  paroxysm  of  rage,  of  which 
he  himself  was  not  likely  the  second  time  to  be 
the  object,  or  in  some  deadly  vengeance  wrought 
secretly,  against  which  he  would  keep  a sharp 
lookout,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  she  had 
no  outlet  for  her  dangerous,  smouldering  pas- 
sions. 

Beware  of  the  woman  who  cannot  find  free 
utterance  for  all  her  stormy  inner  life  either  in 
words  or  song ! So  long  as  a woman  can  talk, 
there  is  nothing  she  cannot  bear.  If  she  cannot 
have  a companion  to  listen  to  her  woes,  and  has 
no  musical  utterance,  vocal  or  instrumental, — 
then,  if  she  is  of  the  real  woman  sort,  and  has 
a few  heartfuls  of  wild  blood  in  her,  and  you 
have  done  her  a wrong,  — double-bolt  the  door 
which  she  may  enter  on  noiseless  slipper  at  mid- 
night,— look  twice  before  you  taste  of  any  cup 
whose  draught  the  shadow  of  her  hand  may 
have  darkened  ! 

But  let  her  talk,  and,  above  all,  cry,  or,  if  she 
is  one  of  the  coarser-grained  tribe,  give  her  the 
run  of  all  the  red-hot  expletives  in  the  language, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


137 


and  let  her  blister  her  lips  with  them  until  she  is 
tired,  she  will  sleep  like  a lamb  after  it,  and  you 
may  take  a cup  of  coffee  from  her  without  stirring 
it  up  to  look  for  its  sediment. 

So,  if  she  can  sing,  or  play  on  any  musical  in- 
strument, all  her  wickedness  will  run  off  through 
her  throat  or  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  How  many 
tragedies  find  their  peaceful  catastrophe  in  fierce 
roulades  and  strenuous  bravuras ! How  many 
murders  are  executed  in  double-quick  time  upon 
the  keys  which  stab  the  air  with  their  dagger- 
strokes  of  sound  ! What  would  our  civilization 
be  without  the  piano  ? Are  not  Erard  and  Broad- 
wood  and  Chickering  the  true  humanizers  of  our 
time  ? Therefore  do  I love  to  hear  the  all-per- 
vading turn  turn  jarring  the  walls  of  little  parlors 
in  houses  with  double  door-plates  on  their  portals, 
looking  out  on  streets  and  courts  which  to  know 
is  to  be  unknown,  and  where  to  exist  is  not  to 
live,  according  to  any  true  definition  of  living. 
Therefore  complain  I not  of  modern  degeneracy, 
when,  even  from  the  open  window  of  the  small 
unlovely  farm-house,  tenanted  by  the  hard-handed 
man  of  bovine  flavors  and  the  flat-patterned  wom- 
an of  broken-down  countenance,  issue  the  same 
familiar  sounds.  For  who  knows  that  Almira, 
but  for  these  keys,  which  throb  away  her  wild 
impulses  in  harmless  discords,  would  not  have 
been  floating,  dead,  in  the  brown  stream  which 
slides  through  the  meadows  by  her  father’s  door, 
— or  living,  with  that  other  current  which  runs 


138 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


beneath  the  gas-lights  over  the  slimy  pavement, 
choking  with  wretched  weeds  that  were  once  in 
spotless  flower  ? 

Poor  Elsie  ! She  never  sang  nor  played.  She 
never  shaped  her  inner  life  in  words  : such  utter- 
ance was  as  much  denied  to  her  nature  as  com- 
mon articulate  speech  to  the  deaf  mute.  Her 
only  language  must  be  in  action.  Watch  her 
well  by  day  and  by  night,  Old  Sophy ! watch  her 
well ! or  the  long  line  of  her  honored  name  may 
close  in  shame,  and  the  stately  mansion  of  the 
Dudleys  remain  a hissing  and  a reproach  till  its 
roof  is  buried  in  its  cellar ! 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


139 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

ON  HIS  TRACKS. 

44  Abel  ! ” said  the  old  Doctor,  one  morning, 
4 after  you’ve  harnessed  Caustic,  come  into  the 
study  a few  minutes,  will  you  ? ” 

Abel  nodded.  He  was  a man  of  few  words, 
and  he  knew  that  the  44  will  you  ” did  not  require 
an  answer,  being  the  true  New-England  way  of 
rounding  the  corners  of  an  employer’s  order,  — a 
tribute  to  the  personal  independence  of  an  Amer- 
ican citizen. 

The  hired  man  came  into  the  study  in  the 
course  of  a few  minutes.  His  face  was  perfectly 
still,  and  he  waited  to  be  spoken  to  ; but  the 
Doctor’s  eye  detected  a certain  meaning  in  his 
expression,  which  looked  as  if  he  had  some- 
thing to  communicate. 

44  Well  ? ” said  the  Doctor. 

44  He’s  up  to  mischief  o’  some  kind,  I guess,” 
said  Abel.  44 1 jest  happened  daown  by  the  man- 
sion-haouse  last  night,  ’n’  he  come  aout  o’  the  gate 
on  that  queer-lookin’  creatur’  o’  his.  I watched 
him,  ’n’  he  rid,  very  slow,  all  raoun’  by  the  Insti- 
toot,  ’n’  acted  as  ef  he  was  spyin’  abaout.  He 


140 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


looks  to  me  like  a man  that’s  calc’latin’  to  do 
some  kind  of  ill-turn  to  somebody.  I shouldn’t 
like  to  have  him  raoun’  me,  ’f  there  wa’n’t  a 
pitchfork  or  an  eel-spear  or  some  sech  weep’n 
within  reach.  He  may  be  all  right ; but  I don’t 
like  his  looks,  ’n’  I don’t  see  what  he’s  lurkin’ 
raoun’  the  Institoot  for,  after  folks  is  abed.” 

“ Have  you  watched  him  pretty  close  for  the 
last  few  days  ? ” said  the  Doctor. 

“ W’ll,  yes,  — I’ve  had  my  eye  on  him  consid’- 
ble  o’  the  time.  I haf  to  be  pooty  shy  abaout  it, 
or  he’ll  find  aout  th’t  I’m  on  his  tracks.  I don’ 
want  him  to  get  a spite  ag’inst  me,  ’f  I c’n  help  it; 
he  looks  to  me  like  one  o’  them  kind  that  kerries 
what  they  call  slung-shot,  ’n’  hits  ye  on  the  side 
o’  th’  head  with  ’em  so  suddin  y’  never  know 
what  hurts  ye.” 

“ Why,”  said  the  Doctor,  sharply,  — “ have  you 
ever  seen  him  with  any  such  weapon  about 
him  ? ” 

“W’ll,  no, — I caan’t  say  that  I hev,”  Abel 
answered.  “ On’y  he  looks  kin’  o’  dangerous. 
Maybe  he’s  all  jest  ’z  he  ought  to  be,  — I caan’t 
say  that  he  a’n’t,  — but  he’s  aout  late  nights,  ’n’ 
lurkin’  raoun’  jest  ’z  ef  he  wus  spyin’  somebody ; 
’n’  somehaow  I caan’t  help  mistrustin’  them  Port- 
agee-lookin’  fellahs.  I caan’t  keep  the  run  o’ 
this  chap  all  the  time  ; but  I’ve  a notion  that  old 
black  woman  daown ’t  the  mansion-haouse  knows 
’z  much  abaout  him  ’z  anybody.” 

The  Doctor  paused  a moment,  after  hearing 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


141 


this  report  from  his  private  detective,  and  then 
got  into  his  chaise,  and  turned  Caustic’s  head  in 
the  direction  of  the  Dudley  mansion.  He  had 
been  suspicious  of  Dick  from  the  first.  He  did 
not  like  his  mixed  blood,  nor  his  looks,  nor  his 
ways.  He  had  formed  a conjecture  about  his 
projects  early.  He  had  made  a shrewd  guess  as 
to  the  probable  jealousy  Dick  would  feel  of  the 
school-master,  had  found  out  something  of  his 
movements,  and  had  cautioned  Mr.  Bernard,  — 
as  we  have  seen.  He  felt  an  interest  in  the  young 
man,  — a student  of  his  own  profession,  an  intel- 
ligent and  ingenuously  unsuspecting  young  fel- 
low, who  had  been  thrown  by  accident  into  the 
companionship  or  the  neighborhood  of  two  per- 
sons, one  of  whom  he  knew  to  be  dangerous,  and 
the  other  he  believed  instinctively  might  be  capa- 
ble of  crime. 

The  Doctor  rode  down  to  the  Dudley  mansion 
solely  for  the  sake  of  seeing  Old  Sophy.  He  was 
lucky  enough  to  find  her  alone  in  her  kitchen. 
He  began  talking  with  her  as  a physician ; he 
wanted  to  know  how  her  rheumatism  had  been. 
The  shrewd  old  woman  saw  through  all  that  with 
her  little  beady  black  eyes.  It  was  something 
quite  different  he  had  come  for,  and  Old  Sophy 
answered  very  briefly  for  her  aches  and  ails. 

“ Old  folks’  bones  a’n’t  like  young  folks’,”  she 
said.  “ It’s  the  Lord’s  doin’s,  ’n’  ’t  a’n’t  much 
matter.  I sha’n’  be  long  roun’  this  kitchen.  It’s 
the  young  Missis,  Doctor,  — it’s  our  Elsie,  — it’s 


142 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  baby,  as  we  use5  t5  call  her,  — don5  you  remem- 
ber, Doctor  ? Seventeen  year  ago,  5n5  her  poor 
mother  cryin5  for  her,  — < Where  is  she?  where  is 
she  ? Let  me  see  her ! 5 — 5n5  how  I run  up-stairs, 
— I could  run  then,  — 5n5  got  the  coral  necklace 
5n5  put  it  round  her  little  neck,  5n5  then  showed 
her  to  her  mother,  — 5n5  how  her  mother  looked  at 
her,  5n5  looked,  5n5  then  put  out  her  poor  thin  fin- 
gers 5n5  lifted  the  necklace,  — 5n5  fell  right  back  on 
her  piller,  as  white  as  though  she  was  laid  out  to 
bury  ? 55 

The  Doctor  answered  her  by  silence  and  a look 
of  grave  assent.  He  had  never  chosen  to  let  Old 
Sophy  dwell  upon  these  matters,  for  obvious  rea- 
sons. The  girl  must  not  grow  up  haunted  by 
perpetual  fears  and  prophecies,  if  it  were  possible 
to  prevent  it. 

“ Well,  how  has  Elsie  seemed  of  late  ? 55  he  said, 
after  this  brief  pause. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  the  Doctor  so  steadily  and  search- 
ingly  that  the  diamond  eyes  of  Elsie  herself  could 
hardly  have  pierced  more  deeply. 

The  Doctor  raised  his  head,  by  his  habitual 
movement,  and  met  the  old  woman’s  look  with 
his  own  calm  and  scrutinizing  gaze,  sharpened  by 
the  glasses  through  which  he  now  saw  her. 

Sophy  spoke  presently  in  an  awed  tone,  as  if 
telling  a vision. 

“ We  shall  be  havin’  trouble  before  long. 
The5  5s  somethin’  cornin’  from  the  Lord.  I’ve 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


143 


had  dreams,  Doctor.  It’s  many  a year  I’ve 
been  a-dreamin’,  but  now  they’re  cornin’  over  ’n’ 
over  the  same  thing.  Three  times  I’ve  dreamed 
one  thing,  Doctor,  — one  thing!” 

“ And  what  was  that  ? ” the  Doctor  said,  with 
that  shade  of  curiosity  in  his  tone  which  a meta- 
physician would  probably  say  is  an  index  of  a 
certain  tendency  to  belief  in  the  superstition  to 
which  the  question  refers. 

“ I ca’n’  jestly  tell  y’  what  it  was,  Doctor,”  the 
old  woman  answered,  as  if  bewildered  and  trying 
to  clear  up  her  recollections ; “ but  it  was  some- 
thin’ fearful,  with  a great  noise  ’n’  a great  cryin’ 
o’  people,  — like  the  Las’  Day,  Doctor!  The 
Lord  have  mercy  on  my  poor  chil’,  ’n’  take  care 
of  her,  if  anything  happens ! But  I’s  feared 
she’ll  never  live  to  see  the  Las’  Day,  ’f  ’t  don’ 
come  pooty  quick.” 

Poor  Sophy,  only  the  third  generation  from 
cannibalism,  was,  not  unnaturally,  somewhat  con- 
fused in  her  theological  notions.  Some  of  the 
Second-Advent  preachers  had  been  about,  and 
circulated  their  predictions  among  the  kitchen- 
population  of  Rockland.  This  was  the  way  in 
which  it  happened  that  she  mingled  her  fears  in 
such  a strange  manner  with  their  doctrines. 

The  Doctor  answered  solemnly,  that  of  the  day 
and  hour  we  knew  not,  but  it  became  us  to  be 
always  ready.  — “ Is  there  anything  going  on  in 
the  household  different  from  common  ? ” 

Old  Sophy’s  wrinkled  face  looked  as  full  of 


144 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


life  and  intelligence,  when  she  turned  it  full  upon 
the  Doctor,  as  if  she  had  slipped  off  her  infirmities 
and  years  like  an  outer  garment.  All  those  fine 
instincts  of  observation  which  came  straight  to 
her  from  her  savage  grandfather  looked  out  of  her 
little  eyes.  She  had  a kind  of  faith  that  the  Doc- 
tor was  a mighty  conjurer,  who,  if  he  would, 
could  bewitch  any  of  them.  She  had  relieved 
her  feelings  by  her  long  talk  with  the  minister, 
but  the  Doctor  was  the  immediate  adviser  of  the 
family,  and  had  watched  them  through  all  their 
troubles.  Perhaps  he  could  tell  them  what  to  do. 
She  had  but  one  real  object  of  affection  in  the 
world, — this  child  that  she  had  tended  from  in- 
fancy to  womanhood.  Troubles  were  gathering 
thick  round  her  ; how  soon  they  would  break 
upon  her,  and  blight  or  destroy  her,  no  one  could 
tell;  but  there  was  nothing  in  all  the  catalogue 
of  terrors  which  might  not  come  upon  the  house- 
hold at  any  moment.  Her  own  wits  had  sharp- 
ened themselves  in  keeping  watch  by  day  and 
night,  and  her  face  had  forgotten  its  age  in  the 
excitement  which  gave  life  to  its  features. 

“ Doctor,”  Old  Sophy  said,  “ there’s  strange 
things  goin’  on  here  by  night  and  by  day.  I don’ 
like  that  man, — that  Dick,  — I never  liked  him. 
He  giv’  me  some  o’  these  things  1’  got  on  ; I take 
’em  ’cos  I know  it  make  him  mad,  if  I no  take 
’em ; I wear  ’em,  so  that  he  needn’  feel  as  if  I 
didn’  like  him  ; but,  Doctor,  I hate  him, — jes’  as 
much  as  a member  o’  the  church  has  the  Lord’s 
leave  to  hate  anybody.” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


145 


Her  eyes  sparkled  with  the  old  savage  light,  as 
if  her  ill-will  to  Mr.  Richard  Venner  might  per- 
haps go  a little  farther  than  the  Christian  limit 
she  had  assigned.  But  remember  that  her  grand- 
father was  in  the  habit  of  inviting  his  friends  to 
dine  with  him  upon  the  last  enemy  he  had  bagged, 
and  that  her  grandmother’s  teeth  were  filed  down 
to  points,  so  that  they  were  as  sharp  as  a shark’s. 

“ What  is  that  you  have  seen  about  Mr.  Richard 
Venner  that  gives  you  such  a spite  against  him, 
Sophy  ? ” asked  the  Doctor. 

“ What  I’  seen  ’bout  Dick  Venner?”  she  replied, 
fiercely.  “ I’ll  tell  y’  what  I’  seen.  Dick  wan’s 
to  marry  our  Elsie, — that’s  what  he  wan’s;  ’n’ 
he  don’  love  her,  Doctor,  — he  hates  her,  Doctor, 
as  bad  as  I hate  him ! He  wan’s  to  marry  our 
Elsie,  ’n’  live  here  in  the  big  house,  ’n’  have  nothin’ 
to  do  but  jes’  lay  still  ’n’  watch  Massa  Venner  ’n’ 
see  how  long ’t  ’ll  take  him  to  die,  ’n’  ’f  he  don’ 
die  fas’  ’nuff,  help  him  some  way  t’  die  fasser!  — 
Come  close  up  t’  me,  Doctor  ! I wan’  t’  tell  you 
somethin’  I tol’  th’  minister  t’other  day.  Th’  min- 
ister, he  come  down  ’n’  prayed  ’n’  talked  good,  — 
he’s  a good  man,  that  Doctor  Honeywood,  ’n’  I 
tol’  him  all  ’bout  our  Elsie,  — but  he  didn’  tell  no- 
body what  to  do  to  stop  all  what  I been  dreamin’ 
about  happenin’.  Come  close  up  to  me,  Doctor ! ” 

The  Doctor  drew  his  chair  close  up  to  that  of 
the  old  woman. 

“ Doctor,  nobody  mus’n’  never  marry  our  Elsie ’s 
long ’s  she  lives  ! Nobody  mus’n’  never  live  with 

VOL.  II.  10 


146 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


Elsie  but  OF  Sophy  ; ’n’  OF  Sophy  won’t  never 
diet’s  long ’s  Elsie ’s  alive  to  be  took  care  of.  But 
I’s  feared,  Doctor,  I’s  greatly  feared  Elsie  wan’  to 
marry  somebody.  The’  ’s  a young  gen’l’m’n  up  at 
that  school  where  she  go,  — so  some  of  ’em  tells 
me,  — ’n’  she  loves  t’  see  him  ’n’  talk  wi’  him,  ’n’ 
she  talks  about  him  when  she’s  asleep  sometimes. 
She  mus’n’  never  marry  nobody,  Doctor ! If  she 
do,  he  die,  certain ! ” 

44  If  she  has  a fancy  for  the  young  man  up  at 
the  school  there,”  the  Doctor  said,  44  I shouldn’t 
think  there  w’ould  be  much  danger  from  Dick.” 

44  Doctor,  nobody  know  nothin’  ’bout  Elsie  but 
OF  Sophy.  She  no  like  any  other  creatur’  th’t 
ever  drawed  the  bref  o’  life.  If  she  ca’h’  marry 
one  man  ’cos  she  love  him,  she  marry  another  man 
’cos  she  hate  him.” 

44  Marry  a man  because  she  hates  him,  Sophy  ? 
No  woman  ever  did  such  a thing  as  that,  or  ever 
will  do  it.” 

44  Who  tol’  you  Elsie  was  a woman,  Doctor  ? ” 
said  Old  Sophy,  with  a flash  of  strange  intelli- 
gence in  her  eyes. 

The  Doctor’s  face  showed  that  he  was  startled. 
The  old  woman  could  not  know  much  about 
Elsie  that  he  did  not  know;  but  what  strange  su- 
perstition had  got  into  her  head,  he  was  puzzled 
to  guess.  He  had  better  follow  Sophy’s  lead  and 
find  out  what  she  meant. 

44 1 should  call  Elsie  a woman,  and  a very  hand- 
some one,”  he  said.  44  You  don’t  mean  that  she 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


147 


has  any  mark  about  her,  except — you  know  — 
under  the  necklace  ? ” 

The  old  woman  resented  the  thought  of  any  de- 
formity about  her  darling. 

“ 1 didn’  say  she  had  nothin’ — but  jes’  that  — 
you  know.  My  beauty  have  anything  ugly  ? 
She’s  the  beautifullest-shaped  lady  that  ever  had 
a shinin’  silk  gown  drawed  over  her  shoulders. 
On’y  she  a’n’t  like  no  other  woman  in  none  of  her 
ways.  She  don’t  cry  hi’  laugh  like  other  women. 
An’  she  ha’n’  got  the  same  kind  o’  feelin’s  as  other 
women.  — Do  you  know  that  young  gen’l’m’n  up 
at  the  school,  Doctor  ? ” 

“Yes,  Sophy,  I’ve  met  him  sometimes.  He’s 
a very  nice  sort  of  young  man,  handsome,  too, 
and  I don’t  much  wonder  Elsie  takes  to  him. 
Tell  me,  -Sophy,  what  do  you  think  would  hap- 
pen, if  he  should  chance  to  fall  in  love  with  Elsie, 
and  she  with  him,  and  he  should  marry  her  ? ” 

“ Put  your  ear  close  to  my  lips,  Doctor,  dear!  ” 
She  whispered  a little  to  the  Doctor,  then  added 
aloud,  “ He  die,  — that’s  all.” 

“ But  surely,  Sophy,  you  a’n’t  afraid  to  have 
Dick  marry  her,  if  she  would  have  him  for  any 
reason,  are  you  ? He  can  take  care  of  himself,  if 
anybody  can.” 

“ Doctor  ! ” Sophy  answered,  “ nobody  can  take 
care  of  hisself  that  live  wi’  Elsie  ! Nobody  never 
in  all  this  worl’  mus’  live  wi’  Elsie  but  Ol’  Sophy, 
I tell  you.  You  don’  think  I care  for  Dick? 
What  do  I care,  if  Dick  Venner  die  ? He  wan’s 


148 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


to  marry  our  Elsie  so  ’s  to  live  in  the  big  house 
?n’  get  all  the  money  V all  the  silver  things  ’n’ 
all  the  chists  full  o’  linen  ’n’  beautiful  clothes ! 
That’s  what  Dick  wan’s.  An’  he  hates  Elsie  ’cos 
she  don’  like  him.  But  if  he  marry  Elsie,  she’ll 
make  him  die  some  wrong  way  or  other,  ’n’  they’ll 
take  her  ’n’  hang  her,  or  he’ll  get  mad  with  her 
’n’  choke  her.  — Oh,  I know  his  chokin’  tricks  ! — 
he  don’  leave  his  keys  roun’  for  nothin’ ! ” 

“ What’s  that  yon  say,  Sophy  ? Tell  me  what 
you  mean  by  all  that.” 

So  poor  Sophy  had  to  explain  certain  facts  not 
in  all  respects  to  her  credit.  She  had  taken  the 
opportunity  of  his  absence  to  look  about  his  cham- 
ber, and,  having  found  a key  in  one  of  his  draw- 
ers, had  applied  it  to  a trunk,  and,  finding  that  it 
opened  the  trunk,  had  made  a kind  of  inspection 
for  contraband  articles,  and,  seeing  the  end  of  a 
leather  thong,  had  followed  it  up  until  she  saw 
that  it  finished  with  a noose,  which,  from  certain 
appearances,  she  inferred  to  have  seen  service  of 
at  least  doubtful  nature.  An  unauthorized  search  ; 
but  Old  Sophy  considered  that  a game  of  life  and 
death  was  going  on  in  the  household,  and  that  she 
was  bound  to  look  out  for  her  darling. 

The  Doctor  paused  a moment  to  think  over  this 
odd  piece  of  information.  Without  sharing  So- 
phy’s belief  as  to  the  kind  of  use  this  mischievous- 
looking  piece  of  property  had  been  put  to,  it  was 
certainly  very  odd  that  Dick  should  have  such  a 
thing  at  the  bottom  of  his  trunk.  The  Doctor  re- 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


149 


membered  reading  or  hearing  something  about 
the  lasso  and  the  lariat  and  the  bolas , and  had  an 
indistinct  idea  that  they  had  been  sometimes  used 
as  weapons  of  warfare  or  private  revenge  ; but 
they  were  essentially  a huntsman’s  implements, 
after  all,  and  it  was  not  very  strange  that  this 
young  man  had  brought  one  of  them  with  him. 
Not  strange,  perhaps,  but  worth  noting. 

“ Do  you  really  think  Dick  means  mischief  to 
anybody,  that  he  has  such  dangerous-looking 
things  ? ” the  Doctor  said,  presently. 

“ I tell  you,  Doctor.  Dick  means  to  have  Elsie. 
If  he  ca’n’  get  her,  he  never  let  nobody  else  have 
her.  Oh,  Dick’s  a dark  man,  Doctor ! I know 
him  ! I ’member  him  when  he  was  little  boy,  — 
he  always  cunnin’.  I think  he  mean  mischief  to 
somebody.  He  come  home  late  nights, — come 
in  softly,  — oh,  I hear  him  ! I lay  awake,  ’n’  got 
sharp  ears,  — I hear  the  cats  walkin’  over  the 
roofs,  — ’n’  I hear  Dick  Venner,  when  he  comes 
up  in  his  stockin’-feet  as  still  as  a cat.  I think 
he  mean  mischief  to  somebody.  I no  like  his 
looks  these  las’  days.  — Is  that  a very  pooty 
gen’l’m’n  up  at  the  school-house,  Doctor  ? ” 

“ I told  you  he  was  good-looking.  What  if  he 
is?” 

“ I should  like  to  see  him,  Doctor,  — I should 
like  to  see  the  pooty  gen’l’m’n  that  my  poor  Elsie 
loves.  She  mus’n’  never  marry  nobody,  — but, 
oh,  Doctor,  I should  like  to  see  him,  ’n’  jes’  think 
a little  how  it  would  ha’  been,  if  the  Lord  hadn’ 
been  so  hard  on  Elsie.” 


150 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


She  wept  and  wrung  her  hands.  The  kind 
Doctor  was  touched,  and  left  her  a moment  to  her 
thoughts. 

“ And  how  does  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  take  all 
this  ? ” he  said,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject  a 
little. 

“ Oh,  Massa  Venner,  he  good  man,  but  he  don’ 
know  nothin’  ’bout  Elsie,  as  Ol’  Sophy  do.  I 
keep  close  by  her  ; I help  her  when  she  go  to  bed, 
’n’  set  by  her  sometime  when  she  ’sleep  ; I come 
to  her  in  th’  mornin’  ’n’  help  her  put  on  her 
things.”  — Then,  in  a whisper,  — “Doctor,  Elsie 
lets  Ol’  Sophy  take  off  that  necklace  for  her. 
What  you  think  she  do,  ’f  anybody  else  tech 
it?” 

“ I don’t  know,  I’m  sure,  Sophy,  — strike  the 
person,  perhaps.” 

“ Oh,  yes,  strike  ’em  ! but  not  with  her  han’s, 
Doctor  ! ” — The  old  woman’s  significant  panto- 
mime must  be  guessed  at. 

“ But  you  haven’t  told  me,  Sophy,  what  Mr. 
Dudley  Venner  thinks  of  his  nephew,  nor  wheth- 
er he  has  any  notion  that  Dick  wants  to  marry 
Elsie.” 

“ I tell  you.  Massa  Venner,  he  good  man,  but 
he  no  see  nothin’  ’bout  what  goes  on  here  in  the 
house.  He  sort  o’  broken-hearted,  you  know, — 
sort  o’  giv’  up,  — don’  know  what  to  do  wi’  Elsie, 
’xcep’  say  ‘ Yes,  yes.’  Dick  always  look  smilin’ 
’n’  behave  well  before  him.  One  time  I thought 
Massa  Venner  b’lieve  Dick  was  goin’  to  take  to 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


151 


Elsie  ; but  now  he  don’  seem  to  take  much  notice  ; 

— he  kin’  o’  stupid-like  ’bout  sech  things.  It’s 
trouble,  Doctor;  ’cos  Massa  Venner  bright  man 
naterally, — ’n’  he’s  got  a great  heap  o’  books.  I 
don’  think  Massa  Venner  never  been  jes’  heself 
sence  Elsie’s  born.  He  done  all  he  know  how, — 
but,  Doctor,  that  wa’n’  a great  deal.  You  men- 
folks  don’  know  nothin’  ’bout  these  young  gals  ; 
’n’  ’f  you  knowed  all  the  young  gals  that  ever 
lived,  y’  wouldn’  know  nothin’  ’bout  our  Elsie.” 

“No,  — but,  Sophy,  what  I want  to  know  is, 
whether  you  think  Mr.  Venner  has  any  kind  of 
suspicion  about  his  nephew,  — whether  he  has 
any  notion  that  he’s  a dangerous  sort  of  fellow, 

— or  whether  he  feels  safe  to  have  him  about, 
or  has  even  taken  a sort  of  fancy  to  him.” 

“ Lor’  bless  you,  Doctor,  Massa  Venner  no 
more  idee  ’f  any  mischief  ’bout  Dick  than  he 
has  ’bout  you  or  me.  Y’  see,  he  very  fond  o’ 
the  Cap’ll,  — that  Dick’s  father,  — ’n’  he  live  so 
long  alone  here,  ’long  wi’  us,  that  he  kin’  o’  like 
to  see  mos’  anybody ’t ’s  got  any  o’  th’  ol’  family-^ 
blood  in  ’em.  He  ha’n’t  got  no  more  suspicions 
’n  a baby,  — y’  never  see  sech  a man  ’n  y’r  life. 
I kin’  o’  think  he  don’  care  for  nothin’  in  this 
world  ’xcep’  jes’  t’  do  what  Elsie  wan’s  him  to. 
The  fus’  year  after  young  Madam  die  he  do 
nothin’  but  jes’  set  at  the  window  ’n’  look  out 
at  her  grave,  ’n’  then  come  up  ’n’  look  at  the 
baby’s  neck  ’n’  say,  ‘It's  fadin'* , Sophy , ain't  it  V 
’n’  then  go  down  in  the  study  ’n’  walk  ’n’  walk,  ’n’ 


152 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


then  kneel  down  ’n’  pray.  Doctor,  there  was  two 
places  in  the  old  carpet  that  was  all  threadbare, 
where  his  knees  had  worn  ’em.  An’  sometimes, 
— you  remember  ’bout  all  that,  — he’d  go  off  up 
into  The  Mountain,  ’n’  be  gone  all  day,  ’n’  kill  all 
the  Ugly  Things  he  could  find  up  there.  — Oh, 
Doctor,  I don’  like  to  think  o’  them  days!  — 
An’  by-’n’-by  he  grew  kin’  o’  still,  ’n’  begun  to 
read  a little,  ’n’  ’t  las’  he  got ’s  quiet ’s  a lamb, 
’n’  that’s  the  way  he  is  now.  I think  he’s  got 
religion,  Doctor;  but  he  a’n’t  so  bright  about 
what’s  goin’  on,  ’n’  I don’  believe  he  never 
suspec’  nothin’  till  somethin’  happens;  — for  the’  ’s 
somethin’  goin’  to  happen,  Doctor,  if  the  Las’ 
Day  doesn’  come  to  stop  it ; ’n’  you  mus’  tell  us 
what  to  do,  ’n’  save  my  poor  Elsie,  my  baby  that 
the  Lord  hasn’  took  care  of  like  all  his  other 
childer.” 

The  Doctor  assured  the  old  woman  that  he 
was  thinking  a great  deal  about  them  all,  and 
that  there  were  other  eyes  on  Dick  besides  her 
own.  Let  her  watch  him  closely  about  the 
house,  and  he  would  keep  a look-out  elsewhere. 
If  there  was  anything  new,  she  must  let  him 
know  at  once.  Send  up  one  of  the  men-ser- 
vants, and  he  would  come  down  at  a moment’s 
warning. 

There  was  really  nothing  definite  against  this 
young  man ; but  the  Doctor  was  sure  that  he 
was  meditating  some  evil  design  or  other.  He 
rode  straight  up  to  the  Institute.  There  he  saw 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


153 


Mr.  Bernard,  and  had  a brief  conversation  with 
him,  principally  on  matters  relating  to  his  per- 
sonal interests. 

That  evening,  for  some  unknown  reason,  Mr. 
Bernard  changed  the  place  of  his  desk  and  drew 
down  the  shades  of  his  windows.  Late  that 
night  Mr.  Richard  Venner  drew  the  charge  of 
a rifle,  and  put  the  gun  back  among  the  fowl- 
ing-pieces, swearing  that  a leather  halter  was 
worth  a dozen  of  it. 


154 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  PERILOUS  HOUR. 

Up  to  this  time  Dick  Yenner  had  not  decided 
on  the  particular  mode  and  the  precise  period  of 
relieving  himself  from  the  unwarrantable  interfer- 
ence which  threatened  to  defeat  his  plans.  The 
luxury  of  feeling  that  he  had  his  man  in  his 
power  was  its  own  reward.  One  who  watches 
in  the  dark,  outside,  while  his  enemy,  in  utter 
unconsciousness,  is  illuminating  his  apartment 
and  himself  so  that  every  movement  of  his  head 
and  every  button  on  his  coat  can  be  seen  and 
counted,  experiences  a peculiar  kind  of  pleasure, 
if  he  holds  a loaded  rifle  in  his  hand,  which  he 
naturally  hates  to  bring  to  its  climax  by  testing 
his  skill  as  a marksman  upon  the  object  of  his 
attention. 

Besides,  Dick  had  two  sides  in  his  nature,  al- 
most as  distinct  as  we  sometimes  observe  in  those 
persons  who  are  the  subjects  of  the  condition 
known  as  double  consciousness . On  his  New- 
England  side  he  was  cunning  and  calculating, 
always  cautious,  measuring  his  distance  before 
he  risked  his  stroke,  as  nicely  as  if  he  were 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


155 


throwing  his  lasso.  But  he  was  liable  to  inter- 
current fits  of  jealousy  and  rage,  such  as  the 
light-hued  races  are  hardly  capable  of  conceiv- 
ing,— blinding  paroxysms  of  passion,  which  for 
the  time  overmastered  him,  and  which,  if  they 
found  no  ready  outlet,  transformed  themselves 
into  the  more  dangerous  forces  that  worked 
through  the  instrumentality  of  his  cool  crafti- 
ness. 

He  had  failed  as  yet  in  getting  any  positive 
evidence  that  there  was  any  relation  between 
Elsie  and  the  school-master  other  than  such  as 
might  exist  unsuspected  and  unblamed  between 
a teacher  and  his  pupil.  A book,  or  a note, 
even,  did  not  prove  the  existence  of  any  senti- 
ment. At  one  time  he  would  be  devoured  by 
suspicions,  at  another  he  would  try  to  laugh 
himself  out  of  them.  And  in  the  mean  while 
he  followed  Elsie’s  tastes  as  closely  as  he  could, 
determined  to  make  some  impression  upon  her, 
— to  become  a habit,  a convenience,  a neces- 
sity,— whatever  might  aid  him  in  the  attain- 
ment of  the  one  end  which  was  now  the  aim 
of  his  life. 

It  was  to  humor  one  of  her  tastes  already 
known  to  the  reader,  that  he  said  to  her  one 
morning,  — “ Come,  Elsie,  take  your  castanets, 
and  let  us  have  a dance.” 

He  had  struck  the  right  vein  in  the  girl’s  fancy, 
for  she  was  in  the  mood  for  this  exercise,  and  very 
willingly  led  the  way  into  one  of  the  more  empty 


156 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


apartments.  What  there  was  in  this  particular 
kind  of  dance  which  excited  her  it  might  not  be 
easy  to  guess ; but  those  who  looked  in  with  the 
old  Doctor,  on  a former  occasion,  and  saw  her, 
will  remember  that  she  was  strangely  carried 
away  by  it,  and  became  almost  fearful  in  the 
vehemence  of  her  passion.  The  sound  of  the 
castanets  seemed  to  make  her  alive  all  over. 
Dick  knew  well  enough  what  the  exhibition 
would  be,  and  was  almost  afraid  of  her  at 
these  moments ; for  it  was  like  the  dancing 
mania  of  Eastern  devotees,  more  than  the  ordi- 
nary light  amusement  of  joyous  youth,  — a con- 
vulsion of  the  body  and  the  mind,  rather  than 
a series  of  voluntary  modulated  motions. 

Elsie  rattled  out  the  triple  measure  of  a 
saraband.  Her  eyes  began  to  glitter  more  brill- 
iantly, and  her  shape  to  undulate  in  freer  curves. 
Presently  she  noticed  that  Dick’s  look  was  fixed 
upon  her  necklace.  His  face  betrayed  his  curi- 
osity ; he  was  intent  on  solving  the  question, 
why  she  always  wore  something  about  her  neck. 
The  chain  of  mosaics  she  had  on  at  that  moment 
displaced  itself  at  every  step,  and  he  was  peering 
with  malignant,  searching  eagerness  to  see  if  an 
unsunned  ring  of  fairer  hue  than  the  rest  of  the 
surface,  or  any  less  easily  explained  peculiarity, 
were  hidden  by  her  ornaments. 

She  stopped  suddenly,  caught  the  chain  of 
mosaics  and  settled  it  hastily  in  its  place,  flung 
down  her  castanets,  drew  herself  back,  and  stood 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


157 


looking  at  him,  with  her  head  a little  on  one  side, 
and  her  eyes  narrowing  in  the  way  he  had  known 
so  long  and  well. 

“What  is  the  matter,  Cousin  Elsie?  What 
do  you  stop  for  ? ” he  said. 

Elsie  did  not  answer,  but  kept  her  eyes  on 
him,  full  of  malicious  light.  The  jealousy  which 
lay  covered  up  under  his  surface-thoughts  took 
this  opportunity  to  break  out. 

“ You  wouldn’t  act  so,  if  you  were  dancing 
with  Mr.  Langdon,  — would  you,  Elsie  ? ” he 
asked. 

It  was  with  some  effort  that  he  looked  steadily 
at  her  to  see  the  effect  of  his  question. 

Elsie  colored , — not  much,  but  still  perceptibly. 
Dick  could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  seen 
her  show  this  mark  of  emotion  before,  in  all  his 
experience  of  her  fitful  changes  of  mood.  It 
had  a singular  depth  of  significance,  therefore, 
for  him ; he  knew  how  hardly  her  color  came. 
Blushing  means  nothing,  in  some  persons;  in  oth- 
ers, it  betrays  a profound  inward  agitation,  — a 
perturbation  of  the  feelings  far  more  trying  than 
the  passions  which  with  many  easily  moved  per- 
sons break  forth  in  tears.  All  who  have  observed 
much  are  aware  that  some  men,  who  have  seen 
a good  deal  of  life  in  its  less  chastened  aspects 
and  are  anything  but  modest,  will  blush  often 
and  easily,  while  there  are  delicate  and  sensitive 
women  who  can  faint,  or  go  into  fits,  if  nec- 
essary, but  are  very  rarely  seen  to  betray  their 


158 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


feelings  in  their  cheeks,  even  when  their  expres- 
sion shows  that  their  inmost  soul  is  blushing 
scarlet. 

Presently  she  answered,  abruptly  and  scorn- 
fully,— 

“ Mr.  Langdon  is  a gentleman,  and  would  not 
vex  me  as  you  do.” 

“ A gentleman ! ” Dick  answered,  with  the 
most  insulting  accent, — “a  gentleman!  Come, 
Elsie,  you’ve  got  the  Dudley  blood  in  your  veins, 
and  it  doesn’t  do  for  you  to  call  this  poor,  sneak- 
ing school-master  a gentleman ! ” 

He  stopped  short.  Elsie’s  bosom  was  heaving, 
the  faint  flush  on  her  cheek  was  becoming  a vivid 
glow.  Whether  it  were  shame  or  wrath,  he  saw 
that  he  had  reached  some  deep-lying  centre  of 
emotion.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  in 
his  mind.  With  another  girl  these  signs  of  con- 
fusion might  mean  little  or  nothing ; with  her 
they  were  decisive  and  final.  Elsie  Venner 
loved  Bernard  Langdon. 

The  sudden  conviction,  absolute,  overwhelm- 
ing, which  rushed  upon  him,  had  wellnigh  led 
to  an  explosion  of  wrath,  and  perhaps  some 
terrible  scene  which  might  have  fulfilled  some 
of  Old  Sophy’s  predictions.  This,  however, 
would  never  do.  Dick’s  face  whitened  with 
his  thoughts,  but  he  kept  still  until  he  could 
speak  calmly. 

“ I’ve  nothing  against  the  young  fellow,”  he 
said : “ only  I don’t  think  there’s  anything  quite 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


159 


good  enough  to  keep  the  company  of  people  that 
have  the  Dudley  blood  in  them.  You  a’n’t  as 
proud  as  I am.  I can’t  quite  make  up  my  mind 
to  call  a school-master  a gentleman,  though  this 
one  may  be  well  enough.  I’ve  nothing  against 
him,  at  any  rate.” 

Elsie  made  no  answer,  but  glided  out  of  the 
room  and  slid  away  to  her  own  apartment.  She 
bolted  the  door  and  drew  her  curtains  close. 
Then  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor,  and  fell 
into  a dull,  slow  ache  of  passion,  without  tears, 
without  words,  almost  without  thoughts.  So 
she  remained,  perhaps,  for  a half-hour,  at  the 
end  of  which  time  it  seemed  that  her  passion 
had  become  a sullen  purpose.  She  arose,  and, 
looking  cautiously  round,  went  to  the  hearth, 
which  was  ornamented  with  curious  old  Dutch 
tiles,  with  pictures  of  Scripture  subjects.  One 
of  these  represented  the  lifting  of  the  brazen 
serpent.  She  took  a hair-pin  from  one  of  her 
braids,  and,  insinuating  its  points  under  the  edge 
of  the  tile,  raised  it  from  its  place.  A small 
leaden  box  lay  under  the  tile,  which  she  opened, 
and,  taking  from  it  a little  white  powder,  which 
she  folded  in  a scrap  of  paper,  replaced  the  box 
and  the  tile  over  it. 

Whether  Dick  had  by  any  means  got  a knowl- 
edge of  this  proceeding,  or  whether  he  only  sus- 
pected some  unmentionable  design  on  her  part, 
there  is  no  sufficient  means  of  determining.  At 
any  rate,  when  they  met,  an  hour  or  two  after 


160 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


these  occurrences,  he  could  not  help  noticing  how 
easily  she  seemed  to  have  got  over  her  excitement. 
She  was  very  pleasant  with  him,  — too  pleasant, 
Dick  thought.  It  was  not  Elsie’s  way  to  come  out 
of  a fit  of  anger  so  easily  as  that.  She  had  con- 
trived some  way  of  letting  off  her  spite  ; that  was 
certain.  Dick  was  pretty  cunning,  as  Old  Sophy 
had  said,  and,  whether  or  not  he  had  any  means 
of  knowing  Elsie’s  private  intentions,  watched 
her  closely,  and  was  on  his  guard  against  acci- 
dents. 

For  the  first  time,  he  took  certain  precautions 
with  reference  to  his  diet,  such  as  were  quite  alien 
to  his  common  habits.  On  coming  to  the  dinner- 
table,  that  day,  he  complained  of  headache,  took 
but  little  food,  and  refused  the  cup  of  coffee  which 
Elsie  offered  him,  saying  that  it  did  not  agree 
with  him  when  he  had  these  attacks. 

Here  was  a new  complication.  Obviously 
enough,  he  could  not  live  in  this  way,  suspecting 
everything  but  plain  bread  and  water,  and  hardly 
feeling  safe  in  meddling  with  them.  Not  only 
had  this  school-keeping  wretch  come  between 
him  and  the  scheme  by  which  he  was  to  secure 
his  future  fortune,  but  his  image  had  so  infected 
his  cousin’s  mind  that  she  was  ready  to  try  on 
him  some  of  those  tricks  which,  as  he  had  heard 
hinted  in  the  village,  she  had  once  before  put  in 
practice  upon  a person  who  had  become  odious 
to  her. 

Something  must  be  done,  and  at  once,  to  meet 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


161 


the  double  necessities  of  this  case.  Every  day, 
while  the  young  girl  was  in  these  relations  with 
the  young  man,  was  only  making  matters  worse. 
They  could  exchange  words  and  looks,  they  could 
arrange  private  interviews,  they  would  be  stoop- 
ing together  over  the  same  book,  her  hair  touching 
his  cheek,  her  breath  mingling  with  his,  all  the 
magnetic  attractions  drawing  them  together  with 
strange,  invisible  effluences.  As  her  passion  for 
the  school-master  increased,  her  dislike  to  him,  her 
cousin,  would  grow  with  it,  and  all  his  dangers 
would  be  multiplied.  It  was  a fearful  point  he 
had  reached.  He  was  tempted  at  one  moment  to 
give  up  all  his  plans  and  to  disappear  suddenly 
from  the  place,  leaving  with  the  school-master, 
who  had  come  between  him  and  his  object,  an 
anonymous  token  of  his  personal  sentiments 
which  would  be  remembered  a good  while  in 
the  history  of  the  town  of  Rockland.  This  was 
but  a momentary  thought  ; the  great  Dudley 
property  could  not  be  given  up  in  that  way. 

Something  must  happen  at  once  to  break  up 
all  this  order  of  things.  He  could  think  of  but 
one  Providential  event  adequate  to  the  emergen- 
cy,— an  event  foreshadowed  by  various  recent 
circumstances,  but  hitherto  floating  in  his  mind 
only  as  a possibility.  Its  occurrence  would  at 
once  change  the  course  of  Elsie’s  feelings,  provid- 
ing her  with  something  to  think  of  besides  mis- 
chief, and  remove  the  accursed  obstacle  which 
was  thwarting  all  his  own  projects.  Every  pos- 

VOL.  II.  11 


162 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


sible  motive,  then,  — his  interest,  his  jealousy,  his 
longing  for  revenge,  and  now  his  fears  for  his  own 
safety,  — urged  him  to  regard  the  happening  of  a 
certain  casualty  as  a matter  of  simple  necessity. 
This  was  the  self-destruction  of  Mr.  Bernard 
Langdon. 

Snch  an  event,  though  it  might  be  surprising 
to  many  people,  would  not  be  incredible,  nor 
without  many  parallel  cases.  He  was  poor,  a 
miserable  fag,  under  the  control  of  that  mean 
wretch  up  there  at  the  school,  who  looked  as  if 
he  had  sour  buttermilk  in  his  veins  instead  of 
blood.  He  was  in  love  with  a girl  above  his 
station,  rich,  and  of  old  family,  but  strange  in  all 
her  ways,  and  it  was  conceivable  that  he  should 
become  suddenly  jealous  of  her.  Or  she  might 
have  frightened  him  with  some  display  of  her 
peculiarities  which  had  filled  him  with  a sudden 
repugnance  in  the  place  of  love.  Any  of  these 
things  were  credible,  and  would  make  a probable 
story  enough,  — so  thought  Dick  over  to  himself 
with  the  New-England  half  of  his  mind. 

Unfortunately,  men  will  not  always  take  them- 
selves out  of  the  way  when,  so  far  as  their  neigh- 
bors are  concerned,  it  would  be  altogether  the 
most  appropriate  and  graceful  and  acceptable 
service  they  could  render.  There  was  at  this 
particular  moment  no  special  reason  for  believ- 
ing that  the  school-master  meditated  any  violence 
to  his  own  person.  On  the  contrary,  there  was 
good  evidence  that  he  was  taking  some  care  of 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


163 


himself.  He  was  looking  well  and  in  good  spirits, 
and  in  the  habit  of  amusing  himself  and  exer- 
cising, as  if  to  keep  up  his  standard  of  health, 
especially  of  taking  certain  evening-walks,  before 
referred  to,  at  an  hour  when  most  of  the  Rock- 
land people  had  44  retired,”  or,  in  vulgar  language, 
44  gone  to  b-d.” 

Dick  Venner  settled  it,  however,  in  his  own 
mind,  that  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  must  lay  violent 
hands  upon  himself.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to 
determine  the  precise  hour,  and  the  method  in 
which  the  44  rash  act,”  as  it  would  undoubtedly  be 
called  in  the  next  issue  of  44  The  Rockland  Week- 
ly Universe,”  should  be  committed.  Time,  — this 
evening . Method,  — asphyxia,  by  suspension.  It 
was,  unquestionably,  taking  a great  liberty  with 
a man  to  decide  that  he  should  become  felo  de  se 
without  his  own  consent.  Such,  however,  was 
the  decision  of  Mr.  Richard  Venner  with  regard 
to  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon. 

If  everything  went  right,  then,  there  would  be 
a coroner’s  inquest  to-morrow  upon  what  remained 
of  that  gentleman,  found  suspended  to  the  branch 
of  a tree  somewhere  within  a mile  of  the  Apollin- 
ean  Institute.  The  44  Weekly  Universe”  would 
have  a startling  paragraph  announcing  a 44  SAD 
EVENT!!!”  which  had  44 thrown  the  town  into 
an  intense  state  of  excitement.  Mr.  Barnard 
Langden,  a well  known  teacher  at  the  Appolinian 
Institute,  was  found,  etc.,  etc.  The  vital  spark 
was  extinct.  The  motive  to  the  rash  act  can  only 


164 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


be  conjectured,  but  is  supposed  to  be  disapointed 
affection.  The  name  of  an  accomplished  young 
lady  of  the  highest  respectability  and  great  beauty 
is  mentioned  in  connection  with  this  melencholy 
occurence.” 

Dick  Venner  was  at  the  tea-table  that  evening, 
as  usual.  — No,  he  would  take  green  tea,  if  she 
pleased,  — the  same  that  her  father  drank.  It 
would  suit  his  headache  better. — Nothing, — -he 
was  much  obliged  to  her.  He  would  help  himself, 
— which  he  did  in  a little  different  way  from  com- 
mon, naturally  enough,  on  account  of  his  head- 
ache. He  noticed  that  Elsie  seemed  a little  ner- 
vous while  she  was  rinsing  some  of  the  teacups 
before  their  removal. 

“ There’s  something  going  on  in  that  witch’s 
head,”  he  said  to  himself.  “ I know  her,  — she’d 
be  savage  now,  if  she  hadn’t  got  some  trick  in 
hand.  Let’s  see  how  she  looks  to-morrow ! ” 

Dick  announced  that  he  should  go  to  bed  early 
that  evening,  on  account  of  this  confounded  head- 
ache which  had  been  troubling  him  so  much.  In 
fact,  he  went  up  early,  and  locked  his  door  after 
him,  with  as  much  noise  as  he  could  make.  He 
then  changed  some  part  of  his  dress,  so  that  it 
should  be  dark  throughout,  slipped  off  his  boots, 
drew  the  lasso  out  from  the  bottom  of  the  con- 
tents of  his  trunk,  and,  carrying  that  and  his  boots 
in  his  hand,  opened  his  door  softly,  locked  it  after 
him,  and  stole  down  the  back-stairs,  so  as  to  get 
out  of  the  house  unnoticed.  He  went  straight  to 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


105 


the  stable  and  saddled  the  mustang.  He  took  a 
rope  from  the  stable  with  him,  mounted  his  horse, 
and  set  forth  in  the  direction  of  the  Institute. 

Mr.  Bernard,  as  we  have  seen,  had  not  been 
very  profoundly  impressed  by  the  old  Doctor’s 
cautions, — enough,  however,  to  follow  out  some 
of  his  hints  which  were  not  troublesome  to  attend 
to.  He  laughed  at  the  idea  of  carrying  a loaded 
pistol  about  with  him ; but  still  it  seemed  only 
fair,  as  the  old  Doctor  thought  so  much  of  the 
matter,  to  humor  him  about  it.  As  for  not  going 
about  when  and  where  he  liked,  for  fear  he  might 
have  some  lurking  enemy,  that  was  a thing  not 
to  be  listened  to  nor  thought  of.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  or  troubled  about  in 
any  of  his  relations  with  the  school-girls.  Elsie, 
no  doubt,  showed  a kind  of  attraction  towards 
him,  as  did  perhaps  some  others;  but  he  had  been 
perfectly  discreet,  and  no  father  or  brother  or  lover 
had  any  just  cause  of  quarrel  with  him.  To  be 
sure,  that  dark  young  man  at  the  Dudley  man- 
sion-house looked  as  if  he  were  his  enemy,  when 
he  had  met  him ; but  certainly  there  was  nothing 
in  their  relations  to  each  other,  or  in  his  own  to 
Elsie,  that  would  be  like  to  stir  such  malice  in 
his  mind  as  would  lead  him  to  play  any  of  his 
wild  Southern  tricks  at  his,  Mr.  Bernard’s,  ex- 
pense. Yet  he  had  a vague  feeling  that  this 
young  man  was  dangerous,  and  he  had  been 
given  to  understand  that  one  of  the  risks  he  ran 
was  from  that  quarter. 


166 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


On  this  particular  evening,  he  had  a strange, 
unusual  sense  of  some  impending  peril.  His 
recent  interview  with  the  Doctor,  certain  remarks 
which  had  been  dropped  in  his  hearing,  but  above 
all  an  unaccountable  impression  upon  his  spirits, 
all  combined  to  fill  his  mind  with  a foreboding 
conviction  that  he  was  very  near  some  overshad- 
owing danger.  It  was  as  the  chill  of  the  ice- 
mountain  toward  which  the  ship  is  steering  under 
full  sail.  He  felt  a strong  impulse  to  see  Helen 
Darley  and  talk  with  her.  She  was  in  the  com- 
mon parlor,  and,  fortunately,  alone. 

“ Helen,”  he  said,  — for  they  were  almost  like 
brother  and  sister  now,  — “I  have  been  thinking 
what  you  would  do,  if  I should  have  to  leave  the 
school  at  short  notice,  or  be  taken  away  sud- 
denly by  any  accident.” 

“ Do  ? ” she  said,  her  cheek  growing  paler  than 
its  natural  delicate  hue,  — “ why,  I do  not  know 
how  I could  possibly  consent  to  live  here,  if  you 
left  us.  Since  you  came,  my  life  has  been  al- 
most easy ; before,  it  was  getting  intolerable. 
You  must  not  talk  about  going,  my  dear  friend  ; 
you  have  spoiled  me  for  my  place.  Who  is  there 
here  that  I can  have  any  true  society  with,  but 
you  ? You  would  not  leave  us  for  another  school, 
would  you  ? ” 

“ No,  no,  my  dear  Helen,”  Mr.  Bernard  said  ; 
u if  it  depends  on  myself,  I shall  stay  out  my 
full  time,  and  enjoy  your  company  and  friend- 
ship. But  everything  is  uncertain  in  this  world  ; 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


167 


I have  been  thinking  that  I might  be  wanted 
elsewhere,  and  called  when  I did  not  think  of  it ; 
— it  was  a fancy,  perhaps,  — but  I can’t  keep  it 
out  of  my  mind  this  evening.  If  any  of  my 
fancies  should  come  true,  Helen,  there  are  two  or 
three  messages  I want  to  leave  with  you.  I have 
marked  a book  or  two  with  a cross  in  pencil  on 
the  fly-leaf ; — these  are  for  you.  There  is  a little 
hymn-book  I should  like  to  have  you  give  to 
Elsie  from  me ; — it  may  be  a kind  of  comfort 
to  the  poor  girl.” 

Helen’s  eyes  glistened  as  she  interrupted 
him,  — 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? You  must  not  talk 
so,  Mr.  Langdon.  Why,  you  never  looked  bet- 
ter in  your  life.  Tell  me  now,  you  are  not  in 
earnest,  are  you,  but  only  trying  a little  sentiment 
on  me  ? ” 

Mr.  Bernard  smiled,  but  rather  sadly. 

“ About  half  in  earnest,”  he  said.  “ I have 
had  some  fancies  in  my  head,  — superstitions,  I 
suppose,  — at  any  rate,  it  does  no  harm  to  tell 
you  what  I should  like  to  have  done,  if  anything 
should  happen,— very  likely  nothing  ever  will. 
Send  the  rest  of  the  books  home,  if  you  please, 
and  write  a letter  to  my  mother.  And,  Helen, 
you  will  find  one  small  volume  in  my  desk  en- 
veloped and  directed,  you  will  see  to  whom;  — 
give  this  with  your  own  hands  ; it  is  a keepsake.” 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes ; she  could  not 
speak  at  first.  Presently, — 


168 


ELSIE  VEXNER. 


“ Why,  Bernard,  my  dear  friend,  my  brother,  it 
cannot  be  that  you  are  in  danger  ? Tell  me  what 
it  is,  and,  if  I can  share  it  with  you,  or  counsel 
you  in  any  way,  it  will  only  be  paying  back  the 
great  debt  I owe  you.  No,  no,  — it  can’t  be 
true,  — you  are  tired  and  worried,  and  your  spirits 
have  got  depressed.  I know  what  that  is  ; — I 
was  sure,  one  winter,  that  I should  die  before 
spring ; but  I lived  to  see  the  dandelions  and 
buttercups  go  to  seed.  Come,  tell  me  it  was 
nothing  but  your  imagination.” 

She  felt  a tear  upon  her  cheek,  but  would  not 
turn  her  face  away  from  him;  it  was  the  tear 
of  a sister. 

“ I am  really  in  earnest,  Helen,”  he  said.  “ I 
don’t  know  that  there  is  the  least  reason  in  the 
world  for  these  fancies.  If  they  all  go  off  and 
nothing  comes  of  them,  you  may  laugh  at  me,  if 
you  like.  But  if  there  should  be  any  occasion, 
remember  my  requests.  You  don’t  believe  in 
presentiments,  do  you  ? ” 

“ Oh,  don’t  ask  me,  I beg  you,”  Helen  an- 
swered. “ I have  had  a good  many  frights  for 
every  one  real  misfortune  I have  suffered.  Some- 
times I have  thought  I was  warned  beforehand 
of  coming  trouble,  just  as  many  people  are  of 
changes  in  the  weather,  by  some  unaccountable 
feeling,  — but  not  often,  and  I don’t  like  to  talk 
about  such  things.  I wouldn’t  think  about  these 
fancies  of  yours.  I don’t  believe  you  have 
exercised  enough ; — don’t  you  think  it’s  con- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


169 


finement  in  the  school  has  made  you  ner- 
vous ? ” 

“ Perhaps  it  has  ; but  it  happens  that  I have 
thought  more  of  exercise  lately,  and  have  taken 
regular  evening  walks,  besides  playing  my  old 
gymnastic  tricks  every  day.” 

They  talked  on  many  subjects,  but  through  all 
he  said  Helen  perceived  a pervading  tone  of  sad- 
ness, and  an  expression  as  of  a dreamy  forebod- 
ing of  unknown  evil.  They  parted  at  the  usual 
hour,  and  went  to  their  several  rooms.  The  sad- 
ness of  Mr.  Bernard  had  sunk  into  the  heart  of 
Helen,  and  she  mingled  many  tears  with  her 
prayers  that  evening,  earnestly  entreating  that  he 
might  be  comforted  in  his  days  of  trial  and  pro- 
tected in  his  hour  of  danger. 

Mr.  Bernard  stayed  in  his  room  a short  time 
before  setting  out  for  his  evening  walk.  His  eye 
fell  upon  the  Bible  his  mother  had  given  him 
when  he  left  home,  and  he  opened  it  in  the  New 
Testament  at  a venture.  It  happened  that  the 
first  words  he  read  were  these,  — “ Lest , coming 
suddenly , lie  find  you  sleeping .”  In  the  state  of 
mind  in  which  he  was  at  the  moment,  the  text 
startled  him.  It  was  like  a supernatural  warn- 
ing. He  was  not  going  to  expose  himself  to  any 
particular  danger  this  evening ; a walk  in  a quiet 
village  was  as  free  from  risk  as  Helen  Darley  or 
his  own  mother  could  ask ; yet  he  had  an  unac- 
countable feeling  of  apprehension,  without  any 
definite  object.  At  this  moment  he  remembered 


170 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  old  Doctor’s  counsel,  which  he  had  sometimes 
neglected,  and,  blushing  at  the  feeling  which  led 
him  to  do  it,  he  took  the  pistol  his  suspicious  old 
friend  had  forced  upon  him,  which  he  had  put  \ 
away  loaded,  and,  thrusting  it  into  his  pocket,  set 
out  upon  his  walk. 

The  moon  was  shining  at  intervals,  for  the  j 
night  was  partially  clouded.  There  seemed  to  be  [ 
nobody  stirring,  though  his  attention  was  unusu-  \ ^ 
ally  awake,  and  he  could  hear  the  whirr  of  the  I 
bats  overhead,  and  the  pulsating  croak  of  the 
frogs  in  the  distant  pools  and  marshes.  Presently 
he  detected  the  sound  of  hoofs  at  some  distance, 
and,  looking  forward,  saw  a horseman  coming  in 
his  direction.  The  moon  was  under  a cloud  at 
the  moment,  and  he  could  only  observe  that  the 
horse  and  his  rider  looked  like  a single  dark  ob- 
ject, and  that  they  were  moving  along  at  an  easy 
pace.  Mr.  Bernard  was  really  ashamed  of  him- 
self, when  he  found  his  hand  on  the  butt  of  his 
pistol.  When  the  horseman  was  within  a hun- 
dred and  fifty  yards  of  him,  the  moon  shone  out 
suddenly  and  revealed  each  of  them  to  the  other. 

The  rider  paused  for  a moment,  as  if  carefully 
surveying  the  pedestrian,  then  suddenly  put  his 
horse  to  the  full  gallop,  and  dashed  towards  him, 
rising  at  the  same  instant  in  his  stirrups  and 
swinging  something  round  his  head,  — what,  Mr. 
Bernard  could  not  make  out.  It  was  a strange 
manoeuvre,  — so  strange  and  threatening  in  as- 
pect that  the  young  man  forgot  his  nervousnes  • 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


171 


in  an  instant,  cocked  his  pistol,  and  waited  to  see 
what  mischief  all  this  meant.  He  did  not  wait 
long.  As  the  rider  came  rushing  towards  him, 
he  made  a rapid  motion  and  something  leaped 
five-and-twenty  feet  through  the  air,  in  Mr.  Ber- 
nard’s direction.  In  an  instant  he  felt  a ring, 
as  of  a rope  or  thong,  settle  upon  his  shoulders. 
There  was  no  time  to  think,  — he  would  be  lost 
in  another  second.  He  raised  his  pistol  and  fired, 
— not  at  the  rider,  but  at  the  horse.  His  aim 
was  true ; the  mustang  gave  one  bound  and  fell 
lifeless,  shot  through  the  head.  The  lasso  was 
fastened  to  his  saddle,  and  his  last  bound  threw 
Mr.  Bernard  violently  to  the  earth,  where  he  lay 
motionless,  as  if  stunned. 

In  the  mean  time,  Dick  Venner,  who  had  been 
dashed  down  with  his  horse,  was  trying  to  extri- 
cate himself,  — one  of  his  legs  being  held  fast 
under  the  animal,  the  long  spur  on  his  boot  hav- 
ing caught  in  the  saddle-cloth.  He  found,  how- 
ever, that  he  could  do  nothing  with  his  right  arm, 
his  shoulder  having  been  in  some  way  injured  in 
his  fall.  But  his  Southern  blood  was  up,  and,  as 
he  saw  Mr.  Bernard  move  as  if  he  were  coming 
to  his  senses,  he  struggled  violently  to  free  him- 
self. 

“ I’ll  have  the  dog,  yet,”  he  said,  — u only  let 
me  get  at  him  with  the  knife  ! ” 

He  had  just  succeeded  in  extricating  his  im- 
prisoned leg,  and  was  ready  to  spring  to  his  feet, 
when  he  was  caught  firmly  by  the  throat,  and, 


172 


ELSIE  VENKER. 


looking  up,  saw  a clumsy  barbed  weapon,  com- 
monly known  as  a hay-fork,  within  an  inch  of 
his  breast. 

“ Hold  on  there  ! What  ’n  thunder  V y’ 
abaout,  y’  darned  Portagee  ? ” said  a voice,  with 
a decided  nasal  tone  in  it,  but  sharp  and  reso- 
lute. 

Dick  looked  from  the  weapon  to  the  person 
wTho  held  it,  and  saw  a sturdy,  plain  man  stand- 
ing over  him,  with  his  teeth  clinched,  and  his 
aspect  that  of  one  all  ready  for  mischief. 

“ Lay  still,  naow ! said  Abel  Stebbins,  the 
Doctor’s  man ; “ ’f  y’  don’t,  I’ll  stick  ye,  ’z  sure 
’z  y’  V alive  ! I been  aafter  ye  f’r  a week,  ’n’  I 
got  y’  naow ! I knowed  I’d  ketch  ye  at  some 
darned  trick  or  ’nother  ’fore  I’d  done  ’ith  ye  ! ” 

Dick  lay  perfectly  still,  feeling  that  he  was 
crippled  and  helpless,  thinking  all  the  time  with 
the  Yankee  half  of  his  mind  what  to  do  about  it. 
He  saw  Mr.  Bernard  lift  his  head  and  look  around 
him.  He  would  get  his  senses  again  in  a few 
minutes,  very  probably,  and  then  he,  Mr.  Richard 
Venner,  would  be  done  for. 

“ Let  me  up  ! let  me  up ! ” he  cried,  in  a low, 
hurried  voice,  — “ I’ll  give  you  a hundred  dollars 
in  gold  to  let  me  go.  The  man  a’n’t  hurt, — 
don’t  you  see  him  stirring  ? He’ll  come  to  him- 
self in  two  minutes.  Let  me  up  ! I’ll  give  you 
a hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  gold,  now,  here  on 
the  spot,  — and  the  watch  out  of  my  pocket;  take 
it  yourself,  with  your  own  hands ! ” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


173 


“ I’ll  see  y’  darned  fust ! Ketch  me  lett’n’  go! ” 
was  Abel’s  emphatic  answer.  “ Yeou  lay  still,  ’n’ 
wait  t’ll  that  man  comes  tew.” 

He  kept  the  hay-fork  ready  for  action  at  the 
slightest  sign  of  resistance. 

Mr.  Bernard,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  get- 
ting, first  his  senses,  and  then  some  few  of  his 
scattered  wits,  a little  together. 

“ What  is  it  ? ” — he  said.  “ Who’s  hurt  ? 
What’s  happened  ? ” 

“ Come  along  here  ’z  quick  ’z  y’  ken,”  Abel  an- 
swered, “ ’n’  haalp  me  fix  this  fellah.  Y’  been 
hurt,  y’rself,  ’n’  the’  ’s  murder  come  pooty  nigh 
happenin’.  ” 

Mr.  Bernard  heard  the  answer,  but  presently 
stared  about  and  asked  again,  “ Who's  hurt  ? 
What's  happened  ? ” 

“ Y’  ’r’  hurt,  y’rself,  I tell  ye,”  said  Abel ; “ ’n’ 
the’  ’s  been  a murder,  pooty  nigh.” 

Mr.  Bernard  felt  something  about  his  neck, 
and,  putting  his  hands  up,  found  the  loop  of  the 
lasso,  which  he  loosened,  but  did  not  think  to  slip 
over  his  head,  in  the  confusion  of  his  perceptions 
and  thoughts.  It  was  a wonder  that  it  had  not 
choked  him,  but  he  had  fallen  forward  so  as  to 
slacken  it. 

By  this  time  he  was  getting  some  notion  of 
what  he  was  about,  and  presently  began  looking 
round  for  his  pistol,  which  had  fallen.  He  found 
it  lying  near  him,  cocked  it  mechanically,  and 
walked,  somewhat  unsteadily,  towards  the  two 


174 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


men,  who  were  keeping  their  position  as  still  as 
if  they  were  performing  in  a tableau. 

“ Quick,  naow ! ” said  Abel,  who  had  heard  the 
click  of  cocking  the  pistol,  and  saw  that  he  held 
it  in  his  hand,  as  he  came  towards  him.  u Gi’  me 
that  pistil,  and  yeou  fetch  that  ’ere  rope  layin’ 
there.  I’ll  have  this  here  fellah  fixed  ’n  less  ’n 
two  minutes.” 

Mr.  Bernard  did  as  Abel  said,  — stupidly  and 
mechanically,  for  he  was  but  half  right  as  yet. 
Abel  pointed  the  pistol  at  Dick’s  head. 

“ Naow  hold  up  y’r  hands,  yeou  fellah,”  he 
said,  “ ’n’  keep  ’em  up,  while  this  man  puts  the 
rope  raound  y’r  wrists.” 

Dick  felt  himself  helpless,  and,  rather  than  have 
his  disabled  arm  roughly  dealt  with,  held  up  his 
hands.  Mr.  Bernard  did  as  Abel  said  ; he  was  in 
a purely  passive  state,  and  obeyed  orders  like  a 
child.  Abel  then  secured  the  rope  in  a most 
thorough  and  satisfactory  complication  of  twists 
and  knots. 

“ Naow  get  up,  will  ye  ? ” he  said  ; and  the  un- 
fortunate Dick  rose  to  his  feet. 

u Whds  hurt  ? Whatfs  happened  ? ” asked  poor 
Mr.  Bernard  again,  his  memory  having  been  com- 
pletely jarred  out  of  him  for  the  time. 

“ Come,  look  here  naow,  yeou,  don’  stan’  aask- 
in’  questions  over  ’n’  over ; — ’t  beats  all ! ha’n’t  I 
tol’  y’  a dozen  times  ? ” 

As  Abel  spoke,  he  turned  and  looked  at  Mr. 
Bernard. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


175 


“ Hullo  ! What  ’n  thunder’s  that  ’ere  raoun’ 
y’r  neck  ? Ketched  ye  ’ith  a slippernoose,  hey  ? 
Wal,  if  that  a’n’t  the  craowner!  Hoi’  on  a min- 
ute, Cap’n,  ’n’  I’ll  show  ye  what  that  ’ere  halter’s 
good  for.” 

Abel  slipped  the  noose  over  Mr.  Bernard’s  head, 
and  put  it  round  the  neck  of  the  miserable  Dick 
Venner,  who  made  no  sign  of  resistance,  — wheth- 
er on  account  of  the  pain  he  was  in,  or  from  mere 
helplessness,  or  because  he  was  waiting  for  some 
unguarded  moment  to  escape,  — since  resistance 
seemed  of  no  use. 

“ I’m  go’n’  to  kerry  y’  home,”  said  Abel ; “ th’ 
ol’  Doctor,  he’s  got  a gre’t  cur’osity  t’  see  ye.  Jes’ 
step  along  naow,  — off  that  way,  will  ye  ? — ’n’ 
I’ll  hoi’  on  t’  th’  bridle,  f’  fear  y’  sh’d  run  away.” 

He  took  hold  of  the  leather  thong,  but ; found 
that  it  was  fastened  at  the  other  end  to  the  saddle. 
This  was  too  much  for  Abel. 

“ Wal,  naow,  yeou  be  a pooty  chap  to  hev 
raound ! A fellah’s  neck  in  a slippernoose  at  one 
eend  of  a halter,  ’n’  a hoss  on  th’  full  spring  at 
t’other  eend ! ” 

He  looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot  as  a nat- 
uralist inspects  a new  specimen.  His  clothes  had 
suffered  in  his  fall,  especially  on  the  leg  which 
had  been  caught  under  the  horse. 

“ Hullo  ! look  o’  there,  naow  ! What’s  that 
’ere  stickin’  aout  o’  y’r  boot  ? ” 

It  was  nothing  but  the  handle  of  an  ugly  knife, 
which  Abel  instantly  relieved  him  of. 


176 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


The  party  now  took  np  the  line  of  march  for 
old  Doctor  Kittredge’s  house,  Abel  carrying  the 
pistol  and  knife,  and  Mr.  Bernard  walking  in 
silence,  still  half-stunned,  holding  the  hay-fork, 
which  Abel  had  thrust  into  his  hand.  It  was  all 
a dream  to  him  as  yet.  He  remembered  the 
horseman  riding  at  him,  and  his  firing  the  pistol ; 
but  whether  he  was  alive,  and  these  walls  around 
him  belonged  to  the  village  of  Rockland,  or 
whether  he  had  passed  the  dark  river,  and  was 
in  a suburb  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  he  could  not 
as  yet  have  told. 

They  were  in  the  street  where  the  Doctor’s 
house  was  situated. 

“ I guess  I’ll  fire  off  one  o’  these  here  berrils,” 
said  Abel. 

He  fired. 

Presently  there  was  a noise  of  opening  windows, 
and  the  nocturnal  head-dresses  of  Rockland  flow- 
ered out  of  them  like  so  many  developments  of 
the  Night-blooming  Cereus.  White  cotton  caps 
and  red  bandanna  handkerchiefs  were  the  prevail- 
ing forms  of  efflorescence.  The  main  point  was 
that  the  village  was  waked  up.  The  old  Doctor 
always  waked  easily,  from  long  habit,  and  was 
the  first  among  those  who  looked  out  to  see  what 
had  happened. 

“ Why,  Abel ! ” he  called  out,  “ what  have  you 
got  there  ? and  what’s  all  this  noise  about  ? ” 

“ We’ve  ketched  the  Portagee ! ” Abel  an- 
swered, as  laconically  as  the  hero  of  Lake  Erie 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


177 


in  his  famous  dispatch.  “ Go  in  there,  you  fel- 
lah ! ” 

The  prisoner  was  marched  into  the  house, 
and  the  Doctor,  who  had  bewitched  his  clothes 
upon  him  in  a way  that  would  have  been  mi- 
raculous in  anybody  but  a physician,  was  down 
in  presentable  form  as  soon  as  if  it  had  been  a 
child  in  a fit  that  he  was  sent  for. 

“Richard  Venner!”  the  Doctor  exclaimed. 
“ What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ? Mr.  Lang- 
don,  has  anything  happened  to  you  ? ” 

Mr.  Bernard  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

66  My  mind  is  confused,”  he  said.  “ Tve  had 
a fall. — Oh,  yes!  — wait  a minute  and  it  will 
all  come  back  to  me.” 

“ Sit  down,  sit  down,”  the  doctor  said.  “ Abel 
will  tell  me  about  it.  Slight  concussion  of  the 
brain.  Can’t  remember  very  well  for  an  hour  or 
two,  — will  come  right  by  to-morrow.” 

“ Been  stunded,”  Abel  said.  “ He  can’t  tell 
nothin’.” 

Abel  then  proceeded  to  give  a Napoleonic 
bulletin  of  the  recent  combat  of  cavalry  and 
infantry  and  its  results,  — none  slain,  one  cap- 
tured. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  prisoner  through  his 
spectacles. 

“ What’s  the  matter  with  your  shoulder,  Ven- 
ner  ? ” 

Dick  answered  sullenly,  that  he  didn’t  know,  — 
fell  on  it  when  his  horse  came  down.  The  Doc- 
12 


VOL.  II. 


178 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


tor  examined  it  as  carefully  as  he  could  through 
his  clothes. 

“ Out  of  joint.  Untie  his  hands,  Abel.” 

By  this  time  a small  alarm  had  spread  among 
the  neighbors,  and  there  was  a circle  around  Dick, 
who  glared  about  on  the  assembled  honest  people 
like  a hawk  with  a broken  wing. 

When  the  Doctor  said,  “ Untie  his  hands,”  the 
circle  widened  perceptibly. 

“ Isn’t  it  a leetle  rash  to  give  him  the  use  of 
his  hands  ? I see  there’s  females  and  children 
standin’  near.” 

This  was  the  remark  of  our  old  friend,  Dea- 
con Soper,  who  retired  from  the  front  row,  as  he 
spoke,  behind  a respectable-looking,  but  some- 
what hastily  dressed  person  of  the  defenceless 
sex,  the  female  help  of  a neighboring  household, 
accompanied  by  a boy,  whose  unsmoothed  shock 
of  hair  looked  like  a last-year’s  crow’s-nest. 

But  Abel  untied  his  hands,  in  spite  of  the  Dea- 
con’s considerate  remonstrance. 

“ Now,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ the  first  thing  is  to 
put  the  joint  back.” 

“ Stop,”  said  Deacon  Soper,  — “ stop  a minute. 
Don’t  you  think  it  will  be  safer  — for  the  women- 
folks— jest  to  wait  till  mornin’,  afore  you  put 
that  j’int  into  the  socket?” 

Colonel  Sprowle,  who  had  been  called  by  a 
special  messenger,  spoke  up  at  this  moment. 

“ Let  the  women-folks  and  the  deacons  go 
home,  if  they’re  scared,  and  put  the  fellah’s  j’int 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


179 


in  as  quick  as  you  like.  I’ll  resk  him,  j’int  in 
or  out.” 

“ I want  one  of  you  to  go  straight  down  to 
Dudley  Venner’s  with  a message,”  the  Doctor 
said.  “ I will  have  the  young  man’s  shoulder 
in  quick  enough.” 

“Don’t  send  that  message!”  said  Dick,  in  a 
hoarse  voice  ; — “do  what  you  like  with  my  arm, 
but  don’t  send  that  message ! Let  me  go,  — I 
can  walk,  and  I’ll  be  off  from  this  place.  There’s 
nobody  hurt  but  myself.  Damn  the  shoulder!  — 
let  me  go ! You  shall  never  hear  of  me  again  ! ” 

Mr.  Bernard  came  forward. 

“My  friends,”  he  said,  “7  am  not  injured, 
— seriously,  at  least.  Nobody  need  complain 
against  this  man,  if  I don’t.  The  Doctor  will 
treat  him  like  a human  being,  at  any  rate  ; and 
then,  if  he  will  go,  let  him.  There  are  too  many 
witnesses  against  him  here  for  him  to  want  to 
stay.” 

The  Doctor,  in  the  mean  time,  without  saying 
a word  to  all  this,  had  got  a towel  round  the 
shoulder  and  chest  and  another  round  the  arm, 
and  had  the  bone  replaced  in  a very  few  min- 
utes. 

“ Abel,  put  Cassia  into  the  new  chaise,”  he 
said,  quietly.  “ My  friends  and  neighbors,  leave 
this  young  man  to  me.” 

“ Colonel  Sprowle,  you’re  a justice  of  the 
peace,”  said  Deacon  Soper,  “ and  you  know 
what  the  law  says  in  cases  like  this.  I a’n’t 


180 


ELSIE  VENNER 


so  clear  that  it  won’t  have  to  come  afore  the 
Grand  Jury,  whether  we  will  or  no.” 

“ I guess  we’ll  set  that  j’int  to-morrow  morn- 
in’,”  said  Colonel  Sprowle,  — which  made  a 
laugh  at  the  Deacon’s  expense,  and  virtually 
settled  the  question. 

“ Now  trust  this  young  man  in  my  care,”  said 
the  old  Doctor,  “ and  go  home  and  finish  your 
naps.  I knew  him  when  he  was  a boy  and  I’ll 
answer  for  it,  he  won’t  trouble  you  any  more. 
The  Dudley  blood  makes  folks  proud,  I can  tell 
you,  whatever  else  they  are.” 

The  good  people  so  respected  and  believed  in 
the  Doctor  that  they  left  the  prisoner  with  him. 

Presently,  Cassia,  the  fast  Morgan  mare,  came 
up  to  the  front-door,  with  the  wheels  of  the  new, 
liglrfc  chaise  flashing  behind  her  in  the  moonlight. 
The  Doctor  drove  Dick  forty  miles  at  a stretch 
that  night,  out  of  the  limits  of  the  State. 

“ Do  you  want  money?”  he  said,  before  he 
left  him. 

Dick  told  him  the  secret  of  his  golden  belt. 

“ Where  shall  I send  your  trunk  after  you 
from  your  uncle’s  ? ” 

Dick  gave  him  a direction  to  a seaport  town 
to  which  he  himself  was  going,  to  take  passage 
for  a port  in  South  America. 

“ Good-bye,  Richard,”  said  the  Doctor.  61  Try 
to  learn  something  from  to-night’s  lesson.” 

The  Southern  impulses  in  Dick’s  wild  blood 
overcame  him,  and  he  kissed  the  old  Doctor  on 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


181 


both  cheeks,  crying  as  only  the  children  of  the 
sun  can  cry,  after  the  first  hours  in  the  dewy 
morning  of  life.  So  Dick  Yenner  disappears 
from  this  story.  An  hour  after  dawn,  Cassia 
pointed  her  fine  ears  homeward,  and  struck  into 
her  square,  honest  trot,  as  if  she  had  not  been 
doing  anything  more  than  her  duty  during  her 
four  hours’  stretch  of  the  last  night. 

Abel  was  not  in  the  habit  of  questioning  the 
Doctor’s  decisions. 

“ It’s  all  right,”  he  said  to  Mr.  Bernard.  “ The 
fellah’s  Squire  Yenner’s  relation,  anyhaow.  Don’t 
you  want  to  wait  here,  jest  a little  while,  till  I 
come  back  ? The’  ’s  a consid’able  nice  saddle  ’n’ 
bridle  on  a dead  hoss  that’s  layin’  daown  there 
in  the  road  ’n’  I guess  the’  a’n’t  no  use  in  lettin’ 
on  ’em  spile,  — so  I’ll  jest  step  aout  ’n’  fetch  ’em 
along.  I kind  o’  calc’late ’t  won’t  pay  to  take  the 
cretur’s  shoes  ’n’  hide  off  to-night,  — ’n’  the’  won’t 
be  much  iron  on  that  hoss’s  huffs  an  haour  after 
daylight,  I’ll  bate  ye  a quarter.” 

“ I’ll  walk  along  with  you,”  said  Mr.  Bernard; 
— “I  feel  as  if  I could  get  along  well  enough 
now.” 

So  they  set  off  together.  There  was  a little 
crowd  round  the  dead  mustang  already,  princi- 
pally consisting  of  neighbors  who  had  adjourned 
from  the  Doctor’s  house  to  see  the  scene  of  the 
late  adventure.  In  addition  to  these,  however, 
the  assembly  was  honored  by  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Principal  Silas  Peckham,  who  had  been  called 


182  ELSIE  VENNER. 

from  his  slumbers'  by  a message  that  Master 
Langdon  was  shot  through  the  head  by  a high- 
way-robber, but  had  learned  a true  version  of 
the  story  by  this  time.  His  voice  was  at  that 
moment  heard  above  the  rest,  — sharp,  but  thin, 
like  bad  cider- vinegar. 

“ I take  charge  of  that  property,  I say.  Master 
Langdon’s  actin’  under  my  orders,  and  I claim 
that  hoss  and  all  that’s  on  him.  Hiram!  jest  slip 
off  that  saddle  and  bridle,  and  carry  ’em  up  to 
the  Institoot,  and  bring  down  a pair  of  pinchers 
and  a file,  — and  — stop  — fetch  a pair  of  shears, 
too ; there’s  hoss-hair  enough  in  that  mane  and 
tail  to  stuff  a bolster  with.” 

“ You  let  that  hoss  alone ! ” spoke  up  Colonel 
Sprowle.  u When  a fellah  goes  out  huntin’  and 
shoots  a squirrel,  do  you  think  he’s  go’n’  to  let 
another  fellah  pick  him  up  and  kerry  him  off? 
Not  if  he’s  got  a double-berril  gun,  and  t’other 
berril  ha’n’t  been  fired  off  yet ! f should  like  to 
see  the  mahn  that’ll  take  off  that  seddle  ’n’  bridle, 
excep’  the  one  th’t  hez  a fair  right  to  the  whole 
concern  ! ” 

Hiram  was  from  one  of  the  lean  streaks  in  New 
Hampshire,  and,  not  being  overfed  in  Mr.  Silas 
Peckham’s  kitchen,  was  somewhat  wanting  in 
stamina,  as  well  as  in  stomach,  for  so  doubtful 
an  enterprise  as  undertaking  to  carry  out  his  em- 
ployer’s orders  in  the  face  of  the  Colonel’s  de- 
fiance. 

Just  then  Mr.  Bernard  and  Abel  came  up  to- 
gether. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


183 


“ Here  they  be,”  said  the  Colonel.  “ Stan’  beck, 
gentlemen  ! ” 

Mr.  Bernard,  who  was  pale  and  still  a little  con- 
fused, but  gradually  becoming  more  like  himself, 
stood  and  looked  in  silence  for  a moment. 

All  his  thoughts  seemed  to  be  clearing  them- 
selves in  this  interval.  He  took  in  the  whole 
series  of  incidents  : his  own  frightful  risk ; the 
strange,  instinctive,  nay,  Providential  impulse 
which  had  led  him  so  suddenly  to  do  the  one  only 
thing  which  could  possibly  have  saved  him ; the 
sudden  appearance  of  the  Doctor’s  man,  but  for 
which  he  might  yet  have  been  lost ; and  the  dis- 
comfiture and  capture  of  his  dangerous  enemy. 

It  was  all  past  now,  and  a feeling  of  pity  rose 
in  Mr.  Bernard’s  heart. 

“ He  loved  that  horse,  no  doubt,”  he  said, — 
“ and  no  wonder.  A beautiful,  wild-looking  crea- 
ture ! Take  off  those  things  that  are  on  him, 
Abel,  and  have  them  carried  to  Mr.  Dudley  Ven- 
ner’s.  If  he  does  not  want  them,  you  may  keep 
them  yourself,  for  all  that  I have  to  say.  One 
thing  more.  I hope  nobody  will  lift  his  hand 
against  this  noble  creature  to  mutilate  him  in 
any  way.  After  you  have  taken  off  the  saddle 
and  bridle,  Abel,  bury  1dm  just  as  he  is.  Under 
that  old  beech-tree  will  be  a good  place.  You’ll 
see  to  it,  — won’t  you,  Abel  ? ” 

Abel  nodded  assent,  and  Mr.  Bernard  returned 
to  the  Institute,  threw  himself  in  his  clothes  on 
the  bed,  and  slept  like  one  who  is  heavy  with 
wine. 


184  ELSIE  TENNER. 

Following  Mr.  Bernard’s  wishes,  Abel  at  once 
took  off  the  high-peaked  saddle  and  the  richly  orna- 
mented bridle  from  the  mustang.  Then,  with  the 
aid  of  two  or  three  others,  he  removed  him  to  the 
place  indicated.  Spades  and  shovels  were  soon 
procured,  and  before  the  moon  had  set,  the  wild 
horse  of  the  Pampas  was  at  rest  under  the  turf  at 
the  way-side,  in  the  far  village  among  the  hills  of 
New  England. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


185 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  NEWS  REACHES  THE  DUDLEY  MANSION. 

Early  the  next  morning  Abel  Stebbins  made 
his  appearance  at  Dudley  Vernier’s,  and  requested 
to  see  the  maan  o’  the  haouse  abaout  somethin’ 
o’  consequence.  Mr.  Venner  sent  word  that  the 
messenger  should  wait  below,  and  presently  ap- 
peared in  the  study,  where  Abel  was  making  him- 
self at  home,  as  is  the  wont  of  the  republican  cit- 
izen, when  he  hides  the  purple  of  empire  beneath 
the  apron  of  domestic  service. 

“ Good  mornin’,  Squire ! ” said  Abel,  as  Mr. 
Venner  entered.  “ My  name’s  Stebbins,  ’n’  I’m 
stoppin’  f’r  a spell  ’ith  ol’  Doctor  Kittredge.” 

“ Well,  Stebbins,”  said  Mr.  Dudley  Venner, 
“ have  you  brought  any  special  message  from 
the  Doctor?” 

u Y’  ha’n’t  heerd  nothin’  abaout  it,  Squire,  d’ 
ye  mean  t’  say?”  said  Abel, — beginning  to  sus- 
pect that  he  was  the  first  to  bring  the  news  of  last 
evening’s  events. 

“ About  what?”  asked  Mr.  Venner,  with  some 
interest. 

“ Dew  tell,  naow  ! Waal,  that  beats  all ! Why, 


186 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


that  ’ere  Portagee  relation  o’  yourn  ’z  been  tryin’ 
t’  ketch  a fellah  ’n  a slippernoose,  ’n’  got  ketched 
himself,  — that’s  all.  Y’  ha’n’t  heerd  noth’n’ 
abaout  it  ? ” 

“ Sit  down,”  said  Mr.  Dudley  Venner,  calmly, 
‘‘  and  tell  me  all  you  have  to  say.” 

So  Abel  sat  down  and  gave  him  an  account  of 
the  events  of  the  last  evening.  It  was  a strange 
and  terrible  surprise  to  Dudley  Venner  to  find 
that  his  nephew,  who  had  been  an  inmate  of  his 
house  and  the  companion  of  his  daughter,  was  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  guilty  of  the  gravest  of 
crimes.  But  the  first  shock  was  no  sooner  over 
than  he  began  to  think  what  effect  the  news  would 
have  on  Elsie.  He  imagined  that  there  was  a 
kind  of  friendly  feeling  between  them,  and  he 
feared  some  crisis  would  be  provoked  in  his 
daughter’s  mental  condition  by  the  discovery. 
He  would  wait,  however,  until  she  came  from 
her  chamber,  before  disturbing  her  with  the  evil 
tidings. 

Abel  did  not  forget  his  message  with  reference 
to  the  equipments  of  the  dead  mustang. 

“ The’  was  some  things  on  the  hoss,  Squire, 
that  the  man  he  ketched  said  he  didn’  care  no 
gre’t  abaout ; but  perhaps  you’d  like  to  have  ’em 
fetched  to  the  mansion-haouse.  Ef  y’  didn ’ care 
abaout  ’em,  though,  1 shouldn’  min’  keepin’  on 
’em ; they  might  come  handy  some  time  or 
’nother : they  say,  holt  on  t’  anything  for  ten  year 
’n’  there’ll  be  some  kin’  o’  use  for ’t.” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


187 


u Keep  everything,”  said  Dudley  Venner.  “ I 
don’t  want  to  see  anything  belonging  to  that 
young  man.” 

So  Abel  nodded  to  Mr.  Venner,  and  left  the 
study  to  find  some  of  the  men  about  the  stable 
to  tell  and  talk  over  with  them  the  events  of 
the  last  evening.  He  presently  came  upon  El- 
bridge,  chief  of  the  equine  department,  and  driver 
of  the  family-coach. 

“ Good  mornin’,  Abe,”  said  Elbridge.  “ What’s 
fetched  y’  daown  here  so  all-fired  airly  ? ” 

“ You’re  a darned  pooty  lot  daown  here,  you 
be ! ” Abel  answered.  u Better  keep  your  Port- 
agees  t’  home  nex’  time,  ketchin’  folks  ’ith  slipper- 
nooses  raoun’  their  necks,  ’n’  kerryin’  knives  ’n 
their  boots ! ” 

“ What  Y you  jawin’  abaout?  ” Elbridge  said, 
looking  up  to  see  if  he  was  in  earnest,  and  what 
he  meant. 

“ JawM  abaout  ? You’ll  find  aout  ’z  soon  ’z 
y’  go  into  that  ’ere  stable  o’  yourn!  Y’  won’t 
curry  that  ’ere  long-tailed  black  hoss  no  more  ; ’n’ 
y’  won’t  set  y’r  eyes  on  the  fellah  that  rid  him, 
ag’in,  in  a hurry ! ” 

Elbridge  walked  straight  to  the  stable,  without 
saying  a word,  found  the  door  unlocked,  and 
went  in. 

“ Th’  critter’s  gone,  sure  enough ! ” he  said. 
“ Glad  on  ’t ! The  darndest,  kickin’est,  bitin’est 
beast  th’t  ever  V see,  ’r  ever  wan’  t’  see  ag’in ! 
Good  reddance ! Don’  wan’  no  snappin’-turkles 


188 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


in  my  stable  ! Whar’s  the  man  gone  th’t  brought 
the  critter  ? ” 

“ Whar  he  ’s  gone  ? Guess  y’  better  go  ’n’ 
aask  my  ol’  man  ; he  kerried  him  off  laas’  night; 
’n’  when  he  comes  back,  mebbe  he’ll  tell  ye  whar 
he’s  gone  tew  ! ” 

By  this  time  Elbridge  had  found  out  that  Abel 
was  in  earnest,  and  had  something  to  tell.  He 
looked  at  the  litter  in  the  mustang’s  stall,  then  at 
the  crib. 

“ Ha’n’t  eat  b’t  haalf  his  feed.  Ha’n’t  been 
daown  on  his  straw.  Must  ha’  been  took  aout 
somewhere  abaout  ten  ’r  ’leven  o’clock.  I know 
that  ’ere  critter’s  ways.  The  fellah’s  had  him 
aout  nights  afore  ; b’t  I never  thought  nothin’  o’ 
no  mischief.  He’s  a kin’  o’  haalf  Injin.  What 
is  ’t  the  chap  ’s  been  a-doin’  on  ? Tell  ’s  all 
abaout  it.” 

Abel  sat  down  on  a meal-chest,  picked  up  a 
straw  and  put  it  into  his  mouth.  Elbridge  sat 
down  at  the  other  end,  pulled  out  his  jack-knife, 
opened  the  penknife-blade,  and  began  sticking  it 
into  the  lid  of  the  meal-chest.  The  Doctor’s  man 
had  a story  to  tell,  and  he  meant  to  get  all  the 
enjoyment  out  of  it.  So  he  told  it  with  every 
luxury  of  circumstance.  Mr.  Venner’s  man  heard 
it  all  with  open  mouth.  No  listener  in  the  gar- 
dens of  Stamboul  could  have  found  more  rapture 
in  a tale  heard  amidst  the  perfume  of  roses  and 
the  voices  of  birds  and  tinkling  of  fountains  than 
Elbridge  in  following  Abel’s  narrative,  as  they 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


189 


sat  there  in  the  aromatic  ammoniacal  atmosphere 
of  the  stable,  the  grinding  of  the  horses’  jaws 
keeping  evenly  on  through  it  all,  with  now  and 
then  the  interruption  of  a stamping  hoof,  and  at 
intervals  a ringing  crow  from  the  barn-yard. 

Elbridge  stopped  a minute  to  think,  after  Abel 
had  finished. 

“ Who’s  took  care  o’  them  things  that  was  on 
the  hoss  ? ” he  said,  gravely. 

“ Waal,  Langden,  he  seemed  to  kin’  o’  think 
I’d  ought  to  have  ’em,  — ’n’  the  Squire,  he  didn’ 
seem  to  have  no  ’bjection ; ’n’  so,  — waal,  I cal- 
c’late  I sh’ll  jes’  holt  on  to  ’em  myself ; they  a’n’t 
good  f’r  much,  but  they’re  cur’ous  t’  keep  t’  look 
at.” 

Mr.  Venner’s  man  did  not  appear  much  grat- 
ified by  this  arrangement,  especially  as  he  had  a 
shrewd  suspicion  that  some  of  the  ornaments  of 
the  bridle  were  of  precious  metal,  having  made 
occasional  examinations  of  them  with  the  edge 
of  a file.  But  he  did  not  see  exactly  what  to  do 
about  it,  except  to  get  them  from  Abel  in  the 
way  of  bargain. 

u Waal,  no,  — they  o!nH  good  for  much  ’xcep’ 
to  look  at.  ’F  y’  ever  rid  on  that  seddle  once, 
y’  wouldn’  try  it  ag’in,  very  spry,  — not  ’f  y’  c’d 
haalp  y’rsaalf.  I tried  it,  — darned  ’f  I sot  daown 
f’r  th’  nex’  week,  — eat  all  my  victuals  stan’in’. 
I sh’d  like  t’  hev  them  things  wal  enough  to  heng 
up  ’n  the  stable  ; ’f  y’  want  t’  trade  some  day, 
fetch  ’em  along  daown.” 


190 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Abel  rather  expected  that  Elbridge  would  have 
laid  claim  to  the  saddle  and  bridle  on  the  strength 
of  some  promise  or  other  presumptive  title,  and 
thought  himself  lucky  to  get  off  with  only  offer- 
ing to  think  abaout  tradin’. 

When  Elbridge  returned  to  the  house,  he  found 
the  family  in  a state  of  great  excitement.  Mr. 
Venner  had  told  Old  Sophy,  and  she  had  in- 
formed the  other  servants.  Everybody  knew 
what  had  happened,  excepting  Elsie.  Her  father 
had  charged  them  all  to  say  nothing  about  it  to 
her ; he  would  tell  her,  when  she  came  down. 

He  heard  her  step  at  last,  — a light,  gliding 
step,  — so  light  that  her  coming  was  often  un- 
heard, except  by  those  who  perceived  the  faint 
rustle  that  went  with  it.  She  was  paler  than 
common  this  morning,  as  she  came  into  her  fa- 
ther’s study. 

After  a few  words  of  salutation,  he  said  qui- 
etly,  — 

“ Elsie,  my  dear,  your  cousin  Richard  has  left 
us.” 

She  grew  still  paler,  as  she  asked, — 

“ Is  he  dead  ? ” 

Dudley  Venner  started  to  see  the  expression 
with  which  Elsie  put  this  question. 

“ He  is  living,  — but  dead  to  us  from  this  day 
forward,”  said  her  father. 

He  proceeded  to  tell  her,  in  a general  way,  the 
story  he  had  just  heard  from  Abel.  There  could 
be  no  doubting  it ; — he  remembered  him  as  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


191 


Doctor’s  man ; and  as  Abel  had  seen  all  with  his 
own  eyes,  — as  Dick’s  chamber,  when  unlocked 
with  a spare  key,  was  found  empty,  and  his  bed 
had  not  been  slept  in,  he  ‘accepted  the  whole  ac- 
count as  true. 

When  he  told  of  Dick’s  attempt  on  the  young 
school-master,  (“  You  know  Mr.  Langdon  very 
well,  Elsie,  — a perfectly  inoffensive  young  man, 
as  I understand,”)  Elsie  turned  her  face  away 
and  slid  along  by  the  wall  to  the  window  which 
looked  out  on  the  little  grass-plot  with  the  white 
stone  standing  in  it.  Her  father  could  not  see 
her  face,  but  he  knew  by  her  movements  that  her 
dangerous  mood  was  on  her.  When  she  heard 
the  sequel  of  the  story,  the  discomfiture  and  cap- 
ture of  Dick,  she  turned  round  for  an  instant, 
with  a look  of  contempt  and  of  something  like 
triumph  upon  her  face.  Her  father  saw  that  her 
cousin  had  become  odious  to  her.  He  knew  well, 
by  every  change  of  her  countenance,  by  her  move- 
ments, by  every  varying  curve  of  her  graceful  fig- 
ure, the  transitions  from  passion  to  repose,  from 
fierce  excitement  to  the  dull  languor  which  often 
succeeded  her  threatening  paroxysms. 

She  remained  looking  out  at  the  window.  A 
group  of  white  fan-tailed  pigeons  had  lighted  on 
the  green  plot  before  it  and  clustered  about  one 
of  their  companions  who  lay  on  his  back,  flutter- 
ing in  a strange  way,  with  outspread  wings  and 
twitching  feet.  Elsie  uttered  a faint  cry;  these 
were  her  special  favorites,  and  often  fed  from  her 


192 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


hand.  She  threw  open  the  long  window,  sprang 
out,  caught  up  the  white  fan-tail,  and  held  it  to 
her  bosom.  The  bird  stretched  himself  out,  and 
then  lay  still,  with  open  eyes,  lifeless.  She  looked 
at  him  a moment,  and,  sliding  in  through-  the 
open  window  and  through  the  study,  sought  her 
own  apartment,  where  she  locked  herself  in,  and 
began  to  sob  and  moan  like  those  that  weep. 
But  the  gracious  solace  of  tears  seemed  to  be 
denied  her,  and  her  grief,  like  her  anger,  was  a 
dull  ache,  longing,  like  that,  to  finish  itself  with 
a fierce  paroxysm,  but  wanting  its  natural  outlet. 

This  seemingly  trifling  incident  of  the  death 
of  her  favorite  appeared  to  change  all  the  current 
of  her  thought.  Whether  it  were  the  sight  of  the 
dying  bird,  or  the  thought  that  her  own  agency 
might  have  been  concerned  in  it,  or  some  deeper 
grief,  which  took  this  occasion  to  declare  itself, 
— some  dark  remorse  or  hopeless  longing,  — 
whatever  it  might  be,  there  was  an  unwonted 
tumult  in  her  soul.  To  whom  should  she  go  in 
her  vague  misery  ? Only  to  Him  who  knows  all 
His  creatures’  sorrows,  and  listens  to  the  faintest 
human  cry.  She  knelt,  as  she  had  been  taught 
to  kneel  from  her  childhood,  and  tried  to  pray. 
But  her  thoughts  refused  to  flow  in  the  language 
of  supplication.  She  could  not  plead  for  herself 
as  other  women  plead  in  their  hours  of  anguish. 
She  rose  like  one  who  should  stoop  to  drink,  and 
find  dust  in  the  place  of  water.  Partly  from  rest- 
lessness, partly  from  an  attraction  she  hardly 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


193 


avowed  to  herself,  she  followed  her  usual  habit 
and  strolled  listlessly  along  to  the  school. 

Of  course  everybody  at  the  Institute  was  full 
of  Ihe  terrible  adventure  of  the  preceding  even- 
ing. Mr.  Bernard  felt  poorly  enough  ; but  he 
had  made  it  a point  to  show  himself  the  next 
morning,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Helen 
Darley  knew  nothing  of  it  all  until  she  had  risen, 
when  the  gossipy  matron  of  the  establishment 
made  her  acquainted  with  all  its  details,  embel- 
lished with  such  additional  ornamental  append- 
ages as  it  had  caught  up  in  transmission  from  lip 
to  lip.  She  did  not  love  to  betray  her  sensibili- 
ties, but  she  was  pale  and  tremulous  and  very 
nearly  tearful  when  Mr.  Bernard  entered  the  sit- 
ting-room, showing  on  his  features  traces  of  the 
violent  shock  he  had  received  and  the  heavy 
slumber  from  which  he  had  risen  with  throbbing 
brows.  What  the  poor  girl’s  impulse  was,  on 
seeing  him,  we  need  not  inquire  too  curiously. 
If  he  had  been  her  own  brother,  she  would  have 
kissed  him  and  cried  on  his  neck ; but  something 
held  her  back.  There  is  no  galvanism  in  kiss- 
your-brother ; it  is  copper  against  copper : but 
alien  bloods  develop  strange  currents,  when  they 
flow  close  to  each  other,  with  only  the  films  that 
cover  lip  and  cheek  between  them.  Mr.  Bernard, 
as  some  of  us  may  remember,  violated  the  proprie- 
ties and  laid  himself  open  to  reproach  by  his  en- 
terprise with  a bouncing  village-girl,  to  whose 

VOL.  II.  13 


194 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


rosy  cheek  an  honest  smack  was  not  probably  an 
absolute  novelty.  He  made  it  all  up  by  his  dis- 
cretion and  good  behavior  now.  He  saw  by 
Helen’s  moist  eye  and  trembling  lip  that  her 
woman’s  heart  was  off  its  guard,  and  he  knew, 
by  the  infallible  instinct  of  sex,  that  he  should  be 
forgiven,  if  he  thanked  her  for  her  sisterly  sympa- 
thies in  the  most  natural  way,  — expressive,  and 
at  the  same  time  economical  of  breath  and  utter- 
ance. He  would  not  give  a false  look  to  their 
friendship  by  any  such  demonstration.  Helen 
was  a little  older  than  himself,  but  the  aureole 
of  young  womanhood  had  not  yet  begun  to  fade 
from  around  her.  She  was  surrounded  by  that 
enchanted  atmosphere  into  which  the  girl  walks 
with  dreamy  eyes,  and  out  of  which  the  woman 
passes  with  a story  written  on  her  forehead. 
Some  people  think  very  little  of  these  refine- 
ments ; they  have  not  studied  magnetism  and  the 
law  of  the  square  of  the  distance. 

So  Mr.  Bernard  thanked  Helen  for  her  interest 
without  the  aid  of  the  twenty-seventh  letter  of  the 
alphabet,  — the  love  labial,  — the  limping  conso- 
nant which  it  takes  two  to  speak  plain.  Indeed, 
he  scarcely  let  her  say  a word,  at  first ; for  he 
saw  that  it  was  hard  for  her  to  conceal  her  emo- 
tion. No  wonder;  he  had  come  within  a hair’s- 
breadth  of  losing  his  life,  and  he  had  been  a very 
kind  friend  and  a very  dear  companion  to  her. 

There  were  some  curious  spiritual  experiences 
connected  with  his  last  evening’s  adventure, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


195 


which  were  working  very  strongly  in  his  mind. 
It  was  borne  in  upon  him  irresistibly  that  he 
had  been  dead  since  he  had  seen  Helen,  — as 
dead  as  the  son  of  the  Widow  of  Nain  before 
the  bier  was  touched  and  he  sat  up  and  began 
to  speak.  There  was  an  interval  between  two 
conscious  moments  which  appeared  to  him  like 
a temporary  annihilation,  and  the  thoughts  it 
suggested  were  worrying  him  with  strange  per- 
plexities. 

He  remembered  seeing  the  dark  figure  on 
horseback  rise  in  the  saddle  and  something 
leap  from  its  hand.  He  remembered  the  thrill 
he  felt  as  the  coil  settled  on  his  shoulders,  and 
the  sudden  impulse  which  led  him  to  fire  as  he 
did.  With  the  report  of  the  pistol  all  became 
blank,  until  he  found  himself  in  a strange,  be- 
wildered state,  groping  about  for  the  weapon, 
which  he  had  a vague  consciousness  of  having 
dropped.  But,  according  to  Abel’s  account,  there 
must  have  been  an  interval  of  some  minutes  be- 
tween these  recollections,  and  he  could  not  help 
asking,  Where  was  the  mind,  the  soul,  the  think- 
ing principle,  all  this  time  ? 

A man  is  stunned  by  a blow  with  a stick  on 
the  head.  He  becomes  unconscious.  Another 
man  gets  a harder  blow  on  the  head  from  a 
bigger  stick,  and  it  kills  him.  Does  he  become 
unconscious,  too  ? If  so,  when  does  lie  come  to 
his  consciousness  ? The  man  who  has  had  a 
slight  or  moderate  blow  comes  to  himself  when 


196 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


the  immediate  shock  passes  off  and  the  organs 
begin  to  work  again,  or  when  a bit  of  the  skull 
is  pried  up,  if  that  happens  to  be  broken.  Sup- 
pose the  blow  is  hard  enough  to  spoil  the  brain 
and  stop  the  play  of  the  organs,  what  happens 
then  ? 

A British  captain  was  struck  by  a cannon-ball 
on  the  head,  just  as  he  was  giving  an  order,  at 
the  Battle  of  the  Nile.  Fifteen  months  after- 
wards he  was  trephined  at  Greenwich  Hospital, 
having  been  insensible  all  that  time.  Immedi- 
ately after  the  operation  his  consciousness  re- 
turned, and  he  at  once  began  carrying  out  the 
order  he  was  giving  when  the  shot  struck  him. 
Suppose  he  had  never  been  trephined,  when 
would  his  consciousness  have  returned?  When 
his  breath  ceased  and  his  heart  stopped  beat- 
ing? 

When  Mr.  Bernard  said  to  Helen,  “ I have 
been  dead  since  I saw  you,”  it  startled  her  not 
a little ; for  his  expression  was  that  of  perfect 
good  faith,  and  she  feared  that  his  mind  was 
disordered.  When  he  explained,  not  as  has  been 
done  just  now,  at  length,  but  in  a hurried,  imper- 
fect way,  the  meaning  of  his  strange  assertion, 
and  the  fearful  Sadduceeisms  which  it  had  sug- 
gested to  his  mind,  she  looked  troubled  at  first, 
and  then  thoughtful.  She  did  not  feel  able  to 
answer  all  the  difficulties  he  raised,  but  she  met 
them  with  that  faith  which  is  the  strength  as  well 
as  the  weakness  of  women,  — which  makes  them 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


197 


weak  in  the  hands  of  man,  but  strong  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Unseen. 

“ It  is  a strange  experience,”  she  said ; “ but  I 
once  had  something  like  it.  I fainted,  and  lost 
some  five  or  ten  minutes  out  of  my  life,  as  much 
as  if  I had  been  dead.  But  when  I came  to  my- 
self, I was  the  same  person  every  way,  in  my 
recollections  and  character.  So  I suppose  that 
loss  of  consciousness  is  not  death.  And  if  I 
was  born  out  of  unconsciousness  into  infancy 
with  many  family -traits  of  mind  and  body,  I 
can  believe,  from  my  own  reason,  even  without 
help  from  Revelation,  that  I shall  be  born  again 
out  of  the  unconsciousness  of  death  with  my 
individual  traits  of  mind  and  body.  If  death 
is,  as  it  should  seem  to  be,  a loss  of  conscious- 
ness, that  does  not  shake  my  faith  ; for  I have 
been  put  into  a body  once  already  to  fit  me  for 
living  here,  and  I hope  to  be  in  some  way  fitted 
after  this  life  to  enjoy  a better  one.  But  it  is  all 
trust  in  God  and  in  his  Word.  These  are  enough 
for  me ; I hope  they  are  for  you.” 

Helen  was  a minister’s  daughter,  and  familiar 
from  her  childhood  with  this  class  of  questions, 
especially  with  all  the  doubts  and  perplexities 
which  are  sure  to  assail  every  thinking  child 
bred  in  any  inorganic  or  not  thoroughly  vital- 
ized faith,  — as  is  too  often  the  case  with  the 
children  of  professional  theologians.  The  kind  of 
discipline  they  are  subjected  to  is  like  that  of  the 
Flat-Head  Indian  pappooses.  At  five  or  ten  or 


198 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


fifteen  years  old  they  put  their  hands  up  to  their 
foreheads  and  ask,  What  are  they  strapping 
down  my  brains  in  this  way  for  ? So  they  tear 
off  the  sacred  bandages  of  the  great  Flat-Head 
tribe,  and  there  follows  a mighty  rush  of  blood 
to  the  long-compressed  region.  This  accounts, 
in  the  most  lucid  manner,  for  those  sudden  freaks 
with  which  certain  children  of  this  class  astonish 
their  worthy  parents  at  the  period  of  life  when 
they  are  growing  fast,  and,  the  frontal  pressure 
beginning  to  be  felt  as  something  intolerable, 
they  tear  off  the  holy  compresses. 

The  hour  for  school  came,  and  they  went  to 
the  great  hall  for  study.  It  would  not  have  oc- 
curred to  Mr.  Silas  Peckham  to  ask  his  assistant 
whether  he  felt  well  enough  to  attend  to  his 
duties ; and  Mr.  Bernard  chose  to  be  at  his 
post.  A little  headache  and  confusion  were  all 
that  remained  of  his  symptoms. 

Later,  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  Elsie 
Venner  came  and  took  her  place.  The  girls  all 
stared  at  her, — naturally  enough;  for  it  was 
hardly  to  have  been  expected  that  she  would 
show  herself,  after  such  an  event  in  the  house- 
hold to  which  she  belonged.  Her  expression 
was  somewhat  peculiar,  and,  of  course,  was 
attributed  to  the  shock  her  feelings  had  under- 
gone on  hearing  of  the  crime  attempted  by  her 
cousin  and  daily  companion.  When  she  was 
looking  on  her  book,  or  on  any  indifferent  ob- 
ject, her  countenance  betrayed  some  inward  dis- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


199 


turbance,  which  knitted  her  dark  brows,  and 
seemed  to  throw  a deeper  shadow  over  her 
features.  But,  from  time  to  time,  she  would 
lift  her  eyes  toward  Mr.  Bernard,  and  let  them 
rest  upon  him,  without  a thought,  seemingly, 
that  she  herself  was  the  subject  of  observation 
or  remark.  Then  they  seemed  to  lose  their  cold 
glitter,  and  soften  into  a strange,  dreamy  tender- 
ness. The  deep  instincts  of  womanhood  were 
striving  to  grope  their  way  to  the  surface  of  her 
being  through  all  the  alien  influences  which 
overlaid  them.  She  could  be  secret  and  cun- 
ning in  working  out  any  of  her  dangerous  im- 
pulses, but  she  did  not  know  how  to  mask  the 
unwonted  feeling  which  fixed  her  eyes  and  her 
thoughts  upon  the  only  person  who  had  ever 
reached  the  spring  of  her  hidden  sympathies. 

The  girls  all  looked  at  Elsie,  whenever  they 
could  steal  a glance  unperceived,  and  many  of 
them  were  struck  with  this  singular  expression 
her  features  wore.  They  had  long  whispered  it 
around  among  each  other  that  she  had  a liking 
for  the  master;  but  there  were  too  many  of  them 
of  whom  something  like  this  could  be  said,  to 
make  it  very  remarkable.  Now,  however,  when 
so  many  little  hearts  were  fluttering  at  the  thought 
of  the  peril  through  which  the  handsome  young 
master  had  so  recently  passed,  they  were  more 
alive  than  ever  to  the  supposed  relation  between 
him  and  the  dark  school-girl.  Some  had  sup- 
posed there  was  a mutual  attachment  between 


200 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


them  ; there  was  a story  that  they  were  secretly 
betrothed,  in  accordance  with  the  rumor  which 
had  been  current  in  the  village.  At  any  rate, 
some  conflict  was  going  on  in  that  still,  remote, 
clouded  soul,  and  all  the  girls  who  looked  upon  her 
face  were  impressed  and  awed  as  they  had  never 
been  before  by  the  shadows  that  passed  over  it. 

One  of  these  girls  was  more  strongly  arrested 
by  Elsie’s  look  than  the  others.  This  was  a deli- 
cate, pallid  creature,  with  a high  forehead,  and 
wide-open  pupils,  which  looked  as  if  they  could 
take  in  all  the  shapes  that  flit  in  what,  to  com- 
mon eyes,  is  darkness,  — a girl  said  to  be  clair- 
voyant under  certain  influences.  In  the  recess , as 
it  was  called,  or  interval  of  suspended  studies  in 
the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  this  girl  carried  her 
autograph-book,  — for  she  had  one  of  those  indis- 
pensable appendages  of  the  boarding-school  miss 
of  every  degree,  — and  asked  Elsie  to  write  her 
name  in  it.  She  had  an  irresistible  feeling,  that, 
sooner  or  later,  and  perhaps  very  soon,  there 
would  attach  an  unusual  interest  to  this  auto- 
graph. Elsie  took  the  pen  and  wrote,  in  her  sharp 
Italian  hand, 

Elsie  Venner , Infelix . 

It  was  a remembrance,  doubtless,  of  the  forlorn 
queen  of  the  “iEneid”;  but  its  coming  to  her 
thought  in  this  way  confirmed  the  sensitive 
school-girl  in  her  fears  for  Elsie,  and  she  let  fall 
a tear  upon  the  page  before  she  closed  it. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


201 


Of  course,  tne  keen  and  practised  observation 
of  Helen  Darley  could  not  fail  to  notice  the  change 
of  Elsie’s  manner  and  expression.  She  had  long 
seen  that  she  was  attracted  to  the  young  master, 
and  had  thought,  as  the  old  Doctor  did,  that  any 
impression  which  acted  upon  her  affections  might 
be  the  means  of  awakening  a new  life  in  her  sin- 
gularly isolated  nature.  Now,  however,  the  con- 
centration of  the  poor  girl’s  thoughts  upon  the 
one  object  which  had  had  power  to  reach  her 
deeper  sensibilities  was  so  painfully  revealed  in 
her  features,  that  Helen  began  to  fear  once  more, 
lest  Mr.  Bernard,  in  escaping  the  treacherous  vio- 
lence of  an  assassin,  had  been  left  to  the  equally 
dangerous  consequences  of  a violent,  engrossing 
passion  in  the  breast  of  a young  creature  whose 
love  it  would  be  ruin  to  admit  and  might  be  dead- 
ly to  reject.  She  knew  her  own  heart  too  well  to 
fear  that  any  jealousy  might  mingle  with  her  new 
apprehensions.  It  was  understood  between  Ber- 
nard and  Helen  that  they  were  too  good  friends 
to  tamper  with  the  silences  and  edging  proxim- 
ities of  love-making.  She  knew,  too,  the  simply 
human,  not  masculine,  interest  which  Mr.  Ber- 
nard took  in  Elsie  ; he  had  been  frank  with  Helen, 
and  more  than  satisfied  her  that  with  all  the  pity 
and  sympathy  which  overflowed  his  soul,  when 
he  thought  of  the  stricken  girl,  there  mingled  not 
one  drop  of  such  love  as  a youth  may  feel  for  a 
maiden. 

It  may  help  the  reader  to  gain  some  under- 


202 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


standing  of  the  anomalous  nature  of  Elsie  Ven- 
ner,  if  we  look  with  Helen  into  Mr.  Bernard’s 
opinions  and  feelings  with  reference  to  her,  as 
they  had  shaped  themselves  in  his  consciousness 
at  the  period  of  which  we  are  speaking. 

At  first  he  had  been  impressed  by  her  wild 
beauty,  and  the  contrast  of  all  her  looks  and  ways 
with  those  of  the  girls  around  her.  Presently  a 
sense  of  some  ill-defined  personal  element,  which 
half  attracted  and  half  repelled  those  who  looked 
upon  her,  and  especially  those  on  whom  she 
looked,  began  to  make  itself  obvious  to  him,  as 
he  soon  found  it  was  painfully  sensible  to  his 
more  susceptible  companion,  the  lady-teacher. 
It  was  not  merely  in  the  cold  light  of  her  dia- 
mond eyes,  but  in  all  her  movements,  in  her 
graceful  postures  as  she  sat,  in  her  costume,  and, 
he  sometimes  thought,  even  in  her  speech,  that 
this  obscure  and  exceptional  character  betrayed 
itself.  When  Helen  had  said,  that,  if  they  were 
living  in  times  when  human  beings  were  subject 
to  possession , she  should  have  thought  there  was 
something  not  human  about  Elsie,  it  struck  an 
unsuspected  vein  of  thought  in  his  own  mind, 
which  he  hated  to  put  in  words,  but  which  was 
continually  trying  to  articulate  itself  among  the 
dumb  thoughts  which  lie  under  the  perpetual 
stream  of  mental  whispers. 

Mr.  Bernard’s  professional  training  had  made 
him  slow  to  accept  marvellous  stories  and  many 
forms  of  superstition.  Yet,  as  a man  of  science, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


203 


he  well  knew  that  just  on  the  verge  of  the  demon- 
strable facts  of  physics  and  physiology  there  is  a 
nebulous  border-land  which  what  is  called  u com- 
mon sense  ” perhaps  does  wisely  not  to  enter,  but 
which  uncommon  sense,  or  the  fine  apprehension 
of  privileged  intelligences,  may  cautiously  ex- 
plore, and  in  so  doing  find  itself  behind  the  scenes 
which  make  up  for  the  gazing  world  the  show 
which  is  called  Nature. 

It  was  with  something  of  this  finer  perception, 
perhaps  with  some  degree  of  imaginative  exalta- 
tion, that  he  set  himself  to  solving  the  problem 
of  Elsie’s  influence  to  attract  and  repel  those 
around  her.  His  letter  already  submitted  to  the 
reader  hints  in  what  direction  his  thoughts  were 
disposed  to  turn.  Here  was  a magnificent  organ- 
ization, superb  in  vigorous  womanhood,  with  a 
beauty  such  as  never  comes  but  after  generations 
of  culture ; yet  through  all  this  rich  nature  there 
ran  some  alien  current  of  influence,  sinuous  and 
dark,  as  when  a clouded  streak  seams  the  white 
marble  of  a perfect  statue. 

It  would  be  needless  to  repeat  the  particular 
suggestions  which  had  come  into  his  mind,  as 
they  must  probably  have  come  into  that  of  the 
reader  who  has  noted  the  singularities  of  Elsie’s 
tastes  and  personal  traits.  The  images  which 
certain  poets  had  dreamed  of  seemed  to  have 
become  a reality  before  his  own  eyes.  Then 
came  that  unexplained  adventure  of  The  Moun- 
tain, — almost  like  a dream  in  recollection,  yet 


204 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


assuredly  real  in  some  of  its  main  incidents, — 
with  all  that  it  revealed  or  hinted.  This  girl  did 
not  fear  to  visit  the  dreaded  region,  where  danger 
lurked  in  every  nook  and  beneath  every  tuft  of 
leaves.  Did  the  tenants  of  the  fatal  ledge  recog- 
nize some  mysterious  affinity  which  made  them 
tributary  to  the  cold  glitter  of  her  diamond  eyes? 
Was  she  from  her  birth  one  of  those  frightful 
children,  such  as  he  had  read  about,  and  the 
Professor  had  told  him  of,  who  form  unnatural 
friendships  with  cold,  writhing  ophidians  ? There 
was  no  need  of  so  unwelcome  a thought  as  this; 
she  had  drawn  him  away  from  the  dark  opening 
in  the  rock  at  the  moment  when  he  seemed  to  be 
threatened  by  one  of  its  malignant  denizens;  that 
was  all  he  could  be  sure  of ; the  counter-fascina- 
tion might  have  been  a dream,  a fancy,  a coinci- 
dence. All  wonderful  things  soon  grow  doubtful 
in  our  own  minds,  as  do  even  common  events,  if 
great  interests  prove  suddenly  to  attach  to  their 
truth  or  falsehood. 

I,  who  am  telling  of  these  occurrences, 

saw  a friend  in  the  great  city,  on  the  morning  of 
a most  memorable  disaster,  hours  after  the  time 
when  the  train  which  carried  its  victims  to  their 
doom  had  left.  I talked  with  him,  and  was  for 
some  minutes,  at  least,  in  his  company.  When 
I reached  home,  I found  that  the  story  had  gone 
before  that  he  was  among  the  lost,  and  I alone 
could  contradict  it  to  his  weeping  friends  and  rel- 
atives. I did  contradict  it;  but,  alas!  I began 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


205 


soon  to  doubt  myself,  penetrated  by  the  contagion 
of  their  solicitude  ; my  recollection  began  to  ques- 
tion itself ; the  order  of  events  became  dislocated  ; 
and  when  I heard  that  he  had  reached  home  in 
safety,  the  relief  was  almost  as  great  to  me  as  to 
those  who  had  expected  to  see  their  own  brother’s 
face  no  more. 

Mr.  Bernard  was  disposed,  then,  not  to  accept 
the  thought  of  any  odious  personal  relationship 
of  the  kind  which  had  suggested  itself  to  him 
when  he  wrote  the  letter  referred  to.  That  the 
girl  had  something  of  the  feral  nature,  her  wild, 
lawless  rambles  in  forbidden  and  blasted  regions 
of  The  Mountain  at  all  hours,  her  familiarity  with 
the  lonely  haunts  where  any  other  human  foot 
was  so  rarely  seen,  proved  clearly  enough.  But 
the  more  he  thought  of  all  her  strange  instincts 
and  modes  of  being,  the  more  he  became  con- 
vinced that  whatever  alien  impulse  swayed  her 
will  and  modulated  or  diverted  or  displaced  her 
affections  came  from  some  impression  that  reached 
far  back  into  the  past,  before  the  days  when  the 
faithful  Old  Sophy  had  rocked  her  in  the  cradle. 
He  believed  that  she  had  brought  her  ruling 
tendency,  whatever  it  was,  into  the  world  with 
her. 

When  the  school  was  over  and  the  girls  had  all 
gone,  Helen  lingered  in  the  school-room  to  speak 
with  Mr.  Bernard. 

“ Did  you  remark  Elsie’s  ways  this  forenoon  ? ” 
she  said. 


206 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


“ No,  not  particularly  ; I have  not  noticed  any- 
thing as  sharply  as  I commonly  do  ; my  head  has 
been  a little  queer,  and  I have  been  thinking  over 
what  we  were  talking  about,  and  how  near  I 
came  to  solving  the  great  problem  which  every 
day  makes  clear  to  such  multitudes  of  people. 
What  about  Elsie  ? ” 

“ Bernard,  her  liking  for  you  is  growing  into  a 
passion.  I have  studied  girls  for  a long  while, 
and  I know  the  difference  between  their  passing 
fancies  and  their  real  emotions.  I told  you,  you 
remember,  that  Rosa  would  have  to  leave  us ; we 
barely  missed  a scene,  I think,  if  not  a whole 
tragedy,  by  her  going  at  the  right  moment.  But 
Elsie  is  infinitely  more  dangerous  to  herself  and 
others.  Women’s  love  is  fierce  enough,  if  it  once 
gets  the  mastery  of  them,  always ; but  this  poor 
girl  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  a passion.” 

Mr.  Bernard  had  never  told  Helen  the  story  of 
the  flower  in  his  Virgil,  or  that  other  adventure 
which  he  would  have  felt  awkwardly  to  refer  to  ; 
but  it  had  been  perfectly  understood  between 
them  that  Elsie  showed  in  her  own  singular 
way  a well-marked  partiality  for  the  young 
master. 

“ Why  don’t  they  take  her  away  from  the 
school,  if  she  is  in  such  a strange,  excitable 
state  ? ” said  Mr.  Bernard. 

“ I believe  they  are  afraid  of  her,”  Helen  an- 
swered. “ It  is  just  one  of  those  cases  that  are 
ten  thousand  thousand  times  worse  than  insanity. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


207 


I don’t  think,  from  what  I hear,  that  her  father 
has  ever  given  up  hoping  that  she  will  outgrow 
her  peculiarities.  Oh,  these  peculiar  children  for 
whom  parents  go  on  hoping  every  morning  and 
despairing  every  night ! If  I could  tell  you  half 
that  mothers  have  told  me,  you  would  feel  that 
the  worst  of  all  diseases  of  the  moral  sense  and 
the  will  are  those  which  all  the  Bedlams  turn 
away  from  their  doors  as  not  being  cases  of 
insanity ! ” 

“ Do  you  think  her  father  has  treated  her  judi- 
ciously ? ” said  Mr.  Bernard. 

44  I think,”  said  Helen,  with  a little  hesitation, 
which  Mr.  Bernard  did  not  happen  to  notice, — 

“ I think  he  has  been  very  kind  and  indulgent, 
and  I do  not  know  that  he  could  have  treated  her 
otherwise  with  a better  chance  of  success.” 

44  He  must  of  course  be  fond  of  her,”  Mr.  Ber-  v 
nard  said  ; 44  there  is  nothing  else  in  the  world  for 
him  to  love.” 

Helen  dropped  a book  she  held  in  her  hand, 
and,  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  the  blood  rushed  into 
her  cheeks. 

44  It  is  getting  late,”  she  said  ; 44  you  must  not 
stay  any  longer  in  this  close  school-room.  Pray, 
go  and  get  a little  fresh  air  before  dinner-time.” 


208 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A SOUL  IN  DISTRESS. 

The  events  told  in  the  last  two  chapters  had 
taken  place  toward  the  close  of  the  week.  On 
Saturday  evening  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fair- 
weather  received  a note  which  was  left  at  his 
door  by  an  unknown  person  who  departed  with- 
out saying  a word.  Its  words  were  these  : — 

“ One  who  is  in  distress  of  mind  requests  the 
prayers  of  this  congregation  that  God  would  be 
pleased  to  look  in  mercy  upon  the  soul  that  he 
has  afflicted.” 

There  was  nothing  to  show  from  whom  the 
note  came,  or  the  sex  or  age  or  special  source  of 
spiritual  discomfort  or  anxiety  of  the  writer.  The 
handwriting  was  delicate  and  might  well  be  a 
woman’s.  The  clergyman  was  not  aware  of  any 
particular  affliction  among  his  parishioners  which 
was  likely  to  be  made  the  subject  of  a request  of 
this  kind.  Surely  neither  of  the  Venners  would 
advertise  the  attempted  crime  of  their  relative  in 
this  way.  But  who  else  was  there  ? The  more 
he  thought  about  it,  the  more  it  puzzled  him  ; 
and  as  he  did  not  like  to  pray  in  the  dark,  with- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


209 


out  knowing  for  whom  he  was  praying,  he  could 
think  of  nothing  better  than  to  step  into  old 
Doctor  Kittredge’s  and  see  what  he  had  to  say 
about  it. 

The  old  Doctor  was  sitting  alone  in  his  study 
when  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  was  ushered 
in.  He  received  his  visitor  very  pleasantly,  ex- 
pecting, as  a matter  of  course,  that  he  would  be- 
gin with  some  new  grievance,  dyspeptic,  neural- 
gic, bronchitic,  or  other.  The  minister,  however, 
began  with  questioning  the  old  Doctor  about  the 
sequel  of  the  other  night’s  adventure  ; for  he  was 
already  getting  a little  Jesuitical,  and  kept  back 
the  object  of  his  visit  until  it  should  come  up  as 
if  accidentally  in  the  course  of  conversation. 

“ It  was  a pretty  bold  thing  to  go  off  alone 
with  that  reprobate,  as  you  did,”  said  the  min- 
ister. 

u I don’t  know  what  there  was  bold  about  it,” 
the  Doctor  answered.  “ All  he  wanted  was  to 
get  away.  He  was  not  quite  a reprobate,  you 
see  ; he  didn’t  like  the  thought  of  disgracing  his 
family  or  facing  his  uncle.  I think  he  was 
ashamed  to  see  his  cousin,  too,  after  what  he 
had  done.” 

“ Did  he  talk  with  you  on  the  way  ? ” 

“ Not  much.  For  half  an  hour  or  so  he  didn’t 
speak  a word.  Then  he  asked  where  I was  driv- 
ing him.  I told  him,  and  he  seemed  to  be  sur- 
prised into  a sort  of  grateful  feeling.  Bad  enough, 
no  doubt,  — but  might  be  worse.  Has  some  hu- 

VOL.  II.  14 


210 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


manity  left  in  him  yet.  Let  him  go.  God  can 
judge  him,  — I can’t.” 

“ You  are  too  charitable,  Doctor,”  the  minister 
said.  “ I condemn  him  just  as  if  he  had  carried 
out  his  project,  which,  they  say,  was  to  make  it 
appear  as  if  the  school-master  had  committed 
suicide.  That’s  what  people  think  the  rope 
found  by  him  was  for.  He  has  saved  his  neck, 
— but  his  soul  is  a lost  one,  I am  afraid,  beyond 
question.” 

“ I can’t  judge  men’s  souls,”  the  Doctor  said. 
“ I can  judge  their  acts,  and  hold  them  respon- 
sible for  those,  — but  I don’t  know  much  about 
their  souls.  If  you  or  I had  found  our  soul  in  a 
half-breed  body,  and  been  turned  loose  to  run 
among  the  Indians,  we  might  have  been  playing 
just  such  tricks  as  this  fellow  has  been  trying. 
What  if  you  or  I had  inherited  all  the  tendencies 
that  were  born  with  his  cousin  Elsie  ? ” 

“ Oh,  that  reminds  me,”  — the  minister  said,  in 
a sudden  way,  — “ I have  received  a note,  which 
I am  requested  to  read  from  the  pulpit  to-morrow. 
I wish  you  would  just  have  the  kindness  to  look 
at  it  and  see  where  you  think  it  came  from.” 

The  Doctor  examined  it  carefully.  It  was  a 
woman’s  or  girl’s  note,  he  thought.  Might  come 
from  one  of  the  school-girls  who  was  anxious 
about  her  spiritual  condition.  Handwriting  was 
disguised  ; looked  a little  like  Elsie  Venner’s,  but 
not  characteristic  enough  to  make  it  certain.  It 
would  be  a new  thing,  if  she  had  asked  public 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


211 


prayers  for  herself,  and  a very  favorable  indication 
of  a change  in  her  singular  moral  nature.  It  was 
just  possible  Elsie  might  have  sent  that  note. 
Nobody  could  foretell  her  actions.  It  would  be 
well  to  see  the  girl  and  find  out  whether  any  un- 
usual impression  had  been  produced  on  her  mind 
by  the  recent  occurrence  or  by  any  other  cause. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  folded  the  note 
and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

“ I have  been  a good  deal  exercised  in  mind 
lately,  myself,”  he  said. 

The  old  Doctor  looked  at  him  through  his  spec- 
tacles, and  said,  in  his  usual  professional  tone, — 

“ Put  out  your  tongue.” 

The  minister  obeyed  him  in  that  feeble  way 
common  with  persons  of  weak  character,  — for 
people  differ  as  much  in  their  mode  of  performing 
this  trifling  act  as  Gideon’s  soldiers  in  their  way 
of  drinking  at  the  brook.  The  Doctor  took  his 
hand  and  placed  a finger  mechanically  on  his 
wrist. 

“ It  is  more  spiritual,  I think,  than  bodily,”  said 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather. 

“ Is  your  appetite  as  good  as  usual  ? ” the  Doc- 
tor asked. 

w Pretty  good,”  the  minister  answered  ; “ but  my 
sleep,  my  sleep,  Doctor, — I am  greatly  troubled 
at  night  with  lying  awake  and  thinking  of  my 
future,  — I am  not  at  ease  in  mind.’ 

He  looked  round  at  all  the  doors,  to  be  sure  they 
were  shut,  and  moved  his  chair  up  close  to  the 
Doctor’s. 


212 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


u You  do  not  know  the  mental  trials  I have 
been  going  Through  for  the  last  few  months.5’ 

“ I think  I do,55  the  old  Doctor  said.  “ You 
want  to  get  out  of  the  new  church  into  the  old 
one,  don’t  you  ? ” 

The  minister  blushed  deeply  ; he  thought  he 
had  been  going  on  in  a very  quiet  way,  and  that 
nobody  suspected  his  secret.  As  the  old  Doctor 
was  his  counsellor  in  sickness,  and  almost  every- 
body’s confidant  in  trouble,  he  had  intended  to 
impart  cautiously  to  him  some  hints  of  the  change 
of  sentiments  through  which  he  had  been  passing. 
He  was  too  late  with  his  information,  it  appeared, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  throw 
himself  on  the  Doctor’s  good  sense  and  kindness, 
which  everybody  knew,  and  get  what  hints  he 
could  from  him  as  to  the  practical  course  he 
should  pursue.  He  began,  after  an  awkward 
pause,  — 

“ You  would  not  have  me  stay  in  a commun- 
ion which  I feel  to  be  alien  to  the  true  church, 
would  you  ? ” 

u Have  you  stay,  my  friend  ? ” said  the  Doctor, 
with  a pleasant,  friendly  look,  — “ have  you  stay? 
Not  a month,  nor  a week,  nor  a day,  if  I could 
help  it.  You  have  got  into  the  wrong  pulpit,  and 
I have  known  it  from  the  first.  The  sooner  you 
go  where  you  belong,  the  better.  And  I’m  very 
glad  you  don’t  mean  to  stop  half-way.  Don’t 
you  know  you’ve  always  come  to  me  when  you’ve 
been  dyspeptic  or  sick  anyhow,  and  wanted  to 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


213 


put  yourself  wholly  into  my  hands,  so  that  I 
might  order  you  like  a child  just  what  to  do  and 
what  to  take  ? That’s  exactly  what  you  want  in 
religion.  I don’t  blame  you  for  it.  You  never 
liked  to  take  the  responsibility  of  your  own  body ; 
I don’t  see  why  you  should  want  to  have  the 
charge  of  your  own  soul.  But  I’m  glad  you’re 
going  to  the  Old  Mother  of  all.  You  wouldn’t 
have  been  contented  short  of  that.” 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  breathed  with 
more  freedom.  The  Doctor  saw  into  his  soul 
through  those  awful  spectacles  of  his, — into  it 
and  beyond  it,  as  one  sees  through  a thin  fog. 
But  it  was  with  a real  human  kindness,  after  all. 
He  felt  like  a child  before  a strong  man  ; but  the 
strong  man  looked  on  him  with  a father’s  indul- 
gence. Many  and  many  a time,  when  he  had 
come  desponding  and  bemoaning  himself  on  ac- 
count of  some  contemptible  bodily  infirmity,  the 
old  Doctor  had  looked  at  him  through  his  specta- 
cles, listened  patiently  while  he  told  his  ailments, 
and  then,  in  his  large  parental  way,  given  him  a 
few  words  of  wholesome  advice,  and  cheered  him 
up  so  that  he  went  off  with  a light  heart,  thinking 
that  the  heaven  he  was  so  much  afraid  of  was 
not  so  very  near,  after  all.  It  was  the  same  thing 
now.  He  felt,  as  feeble  natures  always  do  in  the 
presence  of  strong  ones,  overmastered,  circum- 
scribed, shut  in,  humbled;  but  yet  it  seemed  as  if 
the  old  Doctor  did  not  despise  him  any  more  for 
what  he  considered  weakness  of  mind  than  he 


214 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


used  to  despise  him  when  he  complained  of  his 
nerves  or  his  digestion. 

Men  who  see  into  their  neighbors  are  very  apt 
to  be  contemptuous  ; but  men  who  see  through 
them  find  something  lying  behind  every  human 
soul  which  it  is  not  for  them  to  sit  in  judgment 
on,  or  to  attempt  to  sneer  out  of  the  order  of 
God’s  manifold  universe. 

Little  as  the  Doctor  had  said  out  of  which  com- 
fort could  be  extracted,  his  genial  manner  had 
something  grateful  in  it.  A film  of  gratitude 
came  over  the  poor  man’s  cloudy,  uncertain  eye, 
and  a look  of  tremulous  relief  and  satisfaction 
played  about  his  weak  mouth.  He  was  gravitat- 
ing to  the  majority,  where  he  hoped  to  find 
“ rest  ” ; but  he  was  dreadfully  sensitive  to  the 
opinions  of  the  minority  he  was  on  the  point  of 
leaving. 

The  old  Doctor  saw  plainly  enough  what  was 
going  on  in  his  mind. 

“ I sha’n’t  quarrel  with  you,”  he  said,  — “ you 
know  that  very  well ; but  you  mustn’t  quarrel 
with  me,  if  I talk  honestly  with  you ; it  isn’t 
everybody  that  will  take  the  trouble.  You  flatter 
yourself  that  you  will  make  a good  many  ene- 
mies by  leaving  your  old  communion.  Not  so 
many  as  you  think.  This  is  the  way  the  common 
sort  of  people  will  talk: — ‘ You  have  got  your 
ticket  to  the  feast  of  life,  as  much  as  any  other 
man  that  ever  lived.  Protestantism  says,  — 66  Help 
yourself ; here’s  a clean  plate,  and  a knife  and 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


215 


fork  of  your  own,  and  plenty  of  fresh  dishes  to 
choose  from.”  The  Old  Mother  says,  — “ Give 
me  your  ticket,  my  dear,  and  I’ll  feed  you  with 
my  gold  spoon  off  these  beautiful  old  wooden 
trenchers.  Such  nice  bits  as  those  good  old 
gentlemen  have  left  for  you ! ” There  is  no 
quarrelling  with  a man  who  prefers  broken  vict- 
uals.’ That’s  what  the  rougher  sort  will  say ; 
and  then,  where  one  scolds,  ten  will  laugh.  But, 
mind  you,  I don’t  either  scold  or  laugh.  I don’t 
feel  sure  that  you  could  very  well  have  helped 
doing  what  you  will  soon  do.  You  know  you 
were  never  easy  without  some  medicine  to  take 
when  you  felt  ill  in  body.  I’m  afraid  I’ve  given 
you  trashy  stuff  sometimes,  just  to  keep  you  quiet. 
Now,  l6t  me  tell  you,  there  is  just  the  same  dif- 
ference in  spiritual  patients  that  there  is  in  bodily 
ones.  One  set  believes  in  wholesome  ways  of 
living,  and  another  must  have  a great  list  of  spe- 
cifics for  all  the  soul’s  complaints.  You  belong 
with  the  last,  and  got  accidentally  shuffled  in  with 
the  others.” 

The  minister  smiled  faintly,  but  did  not  reply. 
Of  course,  he  considered  that  way  of  talking  as 
the  result  of  the  Doctor’s  professional  training. 
It  would  not  have  been  worth  while  to  take 
offence  at  his  plain  speech,  if  he  had  been  so  dis- 
posed ; for  he  might  wish  to  consult  him  the  next 
day  as  to  “ what  he  should  take  ” for  his  dyspep- 
sia or  his  neuralgia. 

He  left  the  Doctor  with  a hollow  feeling  at  the 


216 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


bottom  of  his  soul,  as  if  a good  piece  of  his  man- 
hood had  been  scooped  out  of  him.  His  hollow 
aching  did  not  explain  itself  in  words,  but  it 
grumbled  and  worried  down  among  the  un- 
shaped thoughts  which  lie  beneath  them.  He 
knew  that  he  had  been  trying  to  reason  himself 
out  of  his  birthright  of  reason.  He  knew  that 
the  inspiration  which  gave  him  understanding 
was  losing  its  throne  in  his  intelligence,  and  the 
almighty  Majority-Vote  was  proclaiming  itself  in 
its  stead.  He  knew  that  the  great  primal  truths, 
which  each  successive  revelation  only  confirmisl, 
were  fast  becoming  hidden  beneath  the  mechan- 
ical forms  of  thought,  which,  as  with  all  new  con- 
verts, engrossed  so  large  a share  of  his  attention. 
The  “ peace,”  the  u rest,”  which  he  had  purchased, 
were  dearly  bought  to  one  who  had  been  trained 
to  the  arms  of  thought,  and  whose  noble  privilege 
it  might  have  been  to  live  in  perpetual  warfare  for 
the  advancing  truth  which  the  next  generation 
will  claim  as  the  legacy  of  the  present. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  was  getting 
careless  about  his  sermons.  He  must  wait  the 
fitting  moment  to  declare  himself;  and  in  the 
mean  time  he  was  preaching  to  heretics.  It  did 
not  matter  much  what  he  preached,  under  such 
circumstances.  He  pulled  out  two  old  yellow 
sermons  from  a heap  of  such,  and  began  looking 
over  that  for  the  forenoon.  Naturally  enough, 
he  fell  asleep  over  it,  and,  sleeping,  he  began  to 
dream. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


217 


He  dreamed  that  he  was  under  the  high  arches 
of  an  old  cathedral,  amidst  a throng  of  worship- 
pers. The  light  streamed  in  through  vast  windows, 
dark  with  the  purple  robes  of  royal  saints,  or 
blazing  with  yellow  glories  around  the  heads  of 
earthly  martyrs  and  heavenly  messengers.  The 
billows  of  the  great  organ  roared  among  the 
clustered  columns,  as  the  sea  breaks  amidst  the 
basaltic  pillars  which  crowd  the  stormy  cavern  of 
the  Hebrides.  The  voice  of  the  alternate  choirs 
of  singing  boys  swung  back  and  forward,  as  the 
silver  censer  swung  in  the  hands  of  the  white- 
robed  children.  The  sweet  cloud  of  incense  rose 
in  soft,  fleecy  mists,  full  of  penetrating  sugges- 
tions of  the  East  and  its  perfumed  altars.  The 
knees  of  twenty  generations  had  worn  the  pave- 
ment ; their  feet  had  hollowed  the  steps  ; their 
shoulders  had  smoothed  the  columns.  Dead  bish- 
ops and  abbots  lay  under  the  marble  of  the  floor 
in  their  crumbled  vestments ; dead  warriors,  in 
rusted  armor,  were  stretched  beneath  their  sculp- 
tured effigies.  And  all  at  once  all  the  buried 
multitudes  who  had  ever  worshipped  there  came 
thronging  in  through  the  aisles.  They  choked 
every  space,  they  swarmed  into  all  the  chapels, 
they  hung  in  clusters  over  the  parapets  of  the  gal- 
leries, they  clung  to  the  images  in  every  niche, 
and  still  the  vast  throng  kept  flowing  and  flow- 
ing in,  until  the  living  were  lost  in  the  rush  of 
the  returning  dead  who  had  reclaimed  their 
own.  Then,  as  his  dream  became  more  fan- 


218 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


tastic,  the  huge  cathedral  itself  seemed  to  change 
Into  the  wreck  of  some  mighty  antediluvian 
vertebrate ; its  flying-buttresses  arched  round 
like  ribs,  its  piers  shaped  themselves  into  limbs, 
and  the  sound  of  the  organ-blast  changed  to 
the  wind  whistling  through  its  thousand-jointed 
skeleton. 

And  presently  the  sound  lulled,  and  softened 
and  softened,  until  it  was  as  the  murmur  of  a 
distant  swarm  of  bees.  A procession  of  monks 
wound  along  through  an  old  street,  chanting,  as 
they  walked.  In  his  dream  he  glided  in  among 
them  and  bore  his  part  in  the  burden  of  their 
song.  jHe  entered  with  the  long  train  under  a 
low  arch,  and  presently  he  was  kneeling  in  a nar- 
row cell  before  an  image  of  the  Blessed  Maiden 
holding  the  Divine  Child  in  her  arms,  and  his  lips 
seemed  to  whisper, — 

Sancta  Mariay  ora  pro  nobis  ! 

He  turned  to  the  crucifix,  and,  prostrating  him- 
self before  the  spare,  agonizing  shape  of  the  Holy 
Sufferer,  fell  into  a long  passion  of  tears  and 
broken  prayers.  He  rose  and  flung  himself,  worn- 
out,  upon  his  hard  pallet,  and,  seeming  to  slum- 
ber, dreamed  again  within  his  dream.  Once  more 
in  the  vast  cathedral,  with  throngs  of  the  living 
choking  its  aisles,  amidst  jubilant  peals  from  the 
cavernous  depths  of  the  great  organ,  and  choral 
melodies  ringing  from  the  fluty  throats  of  the 
singing  boys.  A day  of  great  rejoicings,  — for 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


219 


a prelate  was  to  be  consecrated,  and  the  bones  of 
the  mighty  skeleton-minster  were  shaking  with 
anthems,  as  if  there  were  life  of  its  own  within 
its  buttressed  ribs.  He  looked  down  at  his  feet ; 
the  folds  of  the  sacred  robe  were  flowing  about 
them : he  put  his  hand  to  his  head ; it  was 
crowned  with  the  holy  mitre.  A long  sigh,  as 
of  perfect  content  in  the  consummation  of  all  his 
earthly  hopes,  breathed  through  the  dreamer’s 
lips,  and  shaped  itself,  as  it  escaped,  into  the 
blissful  murmur,  — 

Ego  sum  Episcopus  ! 

One  grinning  gargoyle  looked  in  from  beneath 
the  roof  through  an  opening  in  a stained  window. 
It  was  the  face  of  a mocking  fiend,  such  as  the 
old  builders  loved  to  place  under  the  eaves  to 
spout  the  rain  through  their  open  mouths.  It 
looked  at  him,  as  he  sat  in  his  mitred  chair, 
with  its  hideous  grin  growing  broader  and 
broader,  until  it  laughed  out  aloud,  — such  a 
hard,  stony,  mocking  laugh,  that  he  awoke  out 
of  his  second  dream  through  his  first  into  his 
common  consciousness,  and  shivered,  as  he 
turned  to  the  two  yellow  sermons  which  he  was 
to  pick  over  and  weed  of  the  little  thought  they 
might  contain,  for  the  next  day’s  service. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fair  weather  was  too 
much  taken  up  with  his  own  bodily  and  spirit- 
ual condition  to  be  deeply  mindful  of  others. 
He  carried  the  note  requesting  the  prayers  of  the 

I 


220 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


congregation  in  his  pocket  all  day  ; and  the  sonl 
in  distress,  which  a single  tender  petition  might 
have  soothed,  and  perhaps  have  saved  from  de- 
spair or  fatal  error,  found  no  voice  in  the  temple 
to  plead  for  it  before  the  Throne  of  Mercy ! 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


221 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  SECRET  IS  WHISPERED. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather’s  con- 
gregation was  not  large,  but  select.  The  lines 
of  social  cleavage  ran  through  religious  creeds 
as  if  they  were  of  a piece  with  position  and 
fortune.  It  is  expected  of  persons  of  a certain 
breeding,  in  some  parts  of  New  England,  that 
they  shall  be  either  Episcopalians  or  Unitarians. 
The  mansion-house  gentry  of  Rockland  were 
pretty  fairly  divided  between  the  little  chapel 
with  the  stained  window  and  the  trained  rector, 
and  the  meeting-house  where  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Fairweather  officiated. 

It  was  in  the  latter  that  Dudley  Venner  wor- 
shipped, when  he  attended  service  anywhere,  — 
which  depended  very  much  on  the  caprice  of 
Elsie.  Pie  saw  plainly  enough  that  a generous 
and  liberally  cultivated  nature  might  find  a ref- 
uge and  congenial  souls  in  either  of  these  two 
persuasions,  but  he  objected  to  some  points  of 
the  formal  creed  of  the  older  church,  and  espe- 
cially to  the  mechanism  which  renders  it  hard 
to  get  free  from  its  outworn  and  offensive  for- 


222 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


mulae,  — remembering  how  Archbishop  Tillotson 
wished  in  vain  that  it  could  be  44  well  rid  of” 
the  Athanasian  Creed.  This,  and  the  fact  that 
the  meeting-house  was  nearer  than  the  chapel, 
determined  him,  when  the  new  rector,  who  was 
not  quite  up  to  his  mark  in  education,  was 
appointed,  to  take  a pew  in  the  44  liberal  ” wor- 
shippers ? edifice. 

Elsie  was  very  uncertain  in  her  feeling  about 
going  to  church.  In  summer,  she  loved  rather 
to  stroll  over  The  Mountain,  on  Sundays.  There 
was  even  a story,  that  she  had  one  of  the  caves 
before  mentioned  fitted  up  as  an  oratory,  and 
that  she  had  her  own  wild  way  of  worshipping 
the  God  whom  she  sought  in  the  dark  chasms 
of  the  dreaded  cliffs.  Mere  fables,  doubtless ; 
but  they  showed  the  common  belief,  that  Elsie, 
with  all  her  strange  and  dangerous  elements  of 
character,  had  yet  strong  religious  feeling  mingled 
with  them.  The  hymn-book  which  Dick  had 
found,  in  his  midnight  invasion  of  her  chamber, 
opened  to  favorite  hymns,  especially  some  of  the 
Methodist  and  Quietist  character.  Many  had 
noticed,  that  certain  tunes,  as  sung  by  the  choir, 
seemed  to  impress  her  deeply ; and  some  said, 
that  at  such  times  her  whole  expression  would 
change,  and  her  stormy  look  would  soften  so  as 
to  remind  them  of  her  poor,  sweet  mother. 

On  the  Sunday  morning  after  the  talk  recorded 
in  the  last  chapter,  Elsie  made  herself  ready  to 
go  to  meeting.  She  was  dressed  much  as  usual, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


223 


excepting  that  she  wore  a thick  veil,  turned  aside, 
but  ready  to  conceal  her  features.  It  was  natu- 
ral enough  that  she  should  not  wish  to  be  looked 
in  the  face  by  curious  persons  who  would  be  star- 
ing to  see  what  effect  the  occurrence  of  the  past 
week  had  had  on  her  spirits.  Her  father  attended 
her  willingly:  and  they  took  their  seats  in  the 
pew,  somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  many,  who  had 
hardly  expected  to  see  them,  after  so  humiliating 
a family  development  as  the  attempted  crime  of 
their  kinsman  had  just  been  furnishing  for  the 
astonishment  of  the  public. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  was  now  in 
his  coldest  mood.  He  had  passed  through  the 
period  of  feverish  excitement  which  marks  a 
change  of  religious  opinion.  At  first,  when  he 
had  begun  to  doubt  his  own  theological  posi- 
tions, he  had  defended  them  against  himself  with 
more  ingenuity  and  interest,  perhaps,  than  he 
could  have  done  against  another ; because  men 
rarely  take  the  trouble  to  understand  anybody’s 
difficulties  in  a question  but  their  own.  After 
this,  as  he  began  to  draw  off  from  different  points 
of  his  old  belief,  the  cautious  disentangling  of 
himself  from  one  mesh  after  another  gave  sharp- 
ness to  his  intellect,  and  the  tremulous  eagerness 
with  which  he  seized  upon  the  doctrine  which, 
piece  by  piece,  under  various  pretexts  and  with 
various  disguises,  he  was  appropriating,  gave  in- 
terest and  something  like  passion  to  his  words. 
But  when  he  had  gradually  accustomed  his  people 


* 

224 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


to  his  new  phraseology,  and  was  really  adjust- 
ing his  sermons  and  his  service  to  disguise  his 
thoughts,  he  lost  at  once  all  his  intellectual  acute- 
ness and  all  his  spiritual  fervor. 

Elsie  sat  quietly  through  the  first  part  of  the 
service,  which  was'  conducted  in  the  cold,  me- 
chanical way  to  be  expected.  Her  face  was  hid- 
den by  her  veil;  but  her  father  knew  her  state  of 
feeling,  as  well  by  her  movements  and  attitudes 
as  by  the  expression  of  her  features.  The  hymn 
had  been  sung,  the  short  prayer  offered,  the  Bible 
read,  and  the  long  prayer  was  about  to  begin. 
This  was  the  time  at  which  the  “notes”  of  any 
who  were  in  affliction  from  loss  of  friends,  the 
sick  who  were  doubtful  of  recovery,  those  who 
had  cause  to  be  grateful  for  preservation  of  life 
or  other  signal* blessing,  were  wont  to  be  read. 

Just  then  it  was  that  Dudley  Venner  noticed 
that  his  daughter  was  trembling, — -a  thing  so 
rare,  so  unaccountable,  indeed,  under  the  circum- 
stances, that  he  watched  her  closely,  and  began 
to  fear  that  some  nervous  paroxysm,  or  other 
malady,  might  have  just  begun  to  show  itself  in  k 
this  way  upon  her. 

The  minister  had  in  his  pocket  two  notes. 
One,  in  the  handwriting  of  Deacon  Soper,  was 
from  a member  of  this  congregation,  returning 
thanks  for  his  preservation  through  a season  of 
great  ppril,  — supposed  to  be  the  exposure  which 
he  had  shared  with  others,  when  standing  in  the 
circle  around  Dick  Venner.  The  other  was  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


225 


anonymous  one,  in  a female  hand,  which  he  had 
received  the  evening  before.  He  forgot  them 
both.  His  thoughts  were  altogether  too  much 
taken  up  with  more  important  matters.  He 
prayed  through  all  the  frozen  petitions  of  his  ex- 
purgated form  of  supplication,  and  not  a single, 
heart  was  soothed  or  lifted,  or  reminded  that  its 
sorrows  were  struggling  their  way  up  to  heaven, 
borne  on  the  breath  from  a human  soul  that  was 
warm  with  love. 

The  people  sat  down  as  if  relieved,  when  the 
dreary  prayer  was  finished.  Elsie  alone  remained 
standing  until  her  father  touched  her.  Then  she 
sat  down,  lifted  her  veil,  and  looked  at  him  with 
a . blank,  sad  look,  as  if  she  had  suffered  some 
pain  or  wrong,  but  could  not  give  any  name  or 
expression  to  her  vague  trouble.  She  did  not 
tremble  any  longer,  but  remained  ominously  still, 
as  if  she  had  been  frozen  where  she  sat. 

Can  a man  love  his  own  soul  too  well? 

Who,  on  the  whole,  constitute  the  nobler  class 
of  human  beings?  those  who  have  lived  mainly 
- to  make  sure  of  their  own  personal  welfare  in 
another  and  future  condition  of  existence,  or  they 
who  have  worked  with  all  their  might  for  their 
race,  for  their  country,  for  the  advancement  of  the 
^jvingdom  of  God,  and  left  all  personal  arrange- 
fnents  concerning  themselves  to  the  sole  charge 
of  Him  who  made  them  and  is  responsible  to 
Himself  for  their  safe-keeping  ? Is  an  ancho- 
rite who  has  worn  the  stone  floor  of  his  cell  into 
15 


VOL.  II. 


226 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


basins  with  his  knees  bent  in  prayer,  more  accept- 
able than  the  soldier  who  gives  his  life  for  the 
maintenance  of  any  sacred  right  or  truth,  with- 
out thinking  what  will  specially  become  of  him 
in  a world  where  there  are  two  or  three  million 
colonists  a month,  from  this  one  planet,  to  be 
cared  for  ? These  are  grave  questions,  which 
must  suggest  themselves  to  those  who  know 
that  there  are  many  profoundly  selfish  persons 
who  are  sincerely  devout  and  perpetually  occu- 
pied with  their  own  future,  while  there  are  others 
who  are  perfectly  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves 
for  any  worthy  object  in  this  world,  but  are  really 
too  little  occupied  with  their  exclusive  personality 
to  think  so  much  as  many  do  about  what  is  to 
become  of  them  in  another. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather  did  not, 
most  certainly,  belong  to  this  latter  class.  There 
are  several  kinds  of  believers,  whose  history  we 
find  among  the  early  converts  to  Christianity. 

There  was  the  magistrate,  whose  social  position 
was  such  that  he  preferred  a private  interview  in 
the  evening  with  the  Teacher  to  following  him 
with  the  street-crowd.  He  had  seen  extraordi- 
nary facts  which  had  satisfied  him  that  the  young 
Galilean  had  a divine  commission.  But  still  he 
cross-questioned  the  Teacher  himself.  He  was 
not  ready  to  accept  statements  without  explana- 
tion. That  was  the  right  kind  of  man.  See  how 
he  stood  up  for  the  legal  rights  of  his  Master, 
when  the  people  were  for  laying  hands  on  him ! 


ELSIE  VENN  Eli. 


227 


And  again,  there  was  the  government  official, 
intrusted  with  public  money,  which,  in  those 
days,  implied  that  he  was  supposed  to  be  honest. 
A single  look  of  that  heavenly  countenance,  and 
two  words  of  gentle  command,  were  enough  for 
him.  Neither  of  these  men,  the  early  disciple 
nor  the  evangelist,  seems  to  have  been  thinking 
primarily  about  his  own  personal  safety. 

But  now  look  at  the  poor,  miserable  turnkey, 
whose  occupation  shows  what  he  was  like  to  be, 
and  who  had  just  been  thrusting  two  respectable 
strangers,  taken  from  the  hands  of  a mob,  covered 
with  stripes  and  stripped  of  clothing,  into  the 
inner  prison,  and  making  their  feet  fast  in  the 
stocks.  His  thought,  in  the  moment  of  terror, 
is  for  himself:  first,  suicide ; then,  what  he  shall 
do,  — not  to  save  his  household,  — not  to  fulfil 
his  duty  to  his  office, — not  to  repair  the  outrage 
he  has  been  committifig,  — but  to  secure  his  own 
personal  safety.  Truly,  character  shows  itself  as 
much  in  a man’s  way  of  becoming  a Christian 
as  in  any  other! 

Elsie  sat,  statue-like,  through  the  sermon. 

It  would  not  be'  fair  to  the  reader  to  give  an  ab- 
stract of  that.  When  a man  who  has  been  bred 
to  free  thought  and  free  speeeh  suddenly  finds 
himself  stepping  about,  like  a dancer  amidst  his 
eggs,  among  the  old  addled  majority -votes  which 
he  must  not  tread  upon,  he  is  a spectacle  for 
men  and  angels.  Submission  to  intellectual  prec- 
edent and  authority  does  very  well  for  those  who 


228 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


have  been  bred  to  it ; we  know  that  the  under- 
ground courses  of  their  minds  are  laid  in  the  Ro- 
man cement  of  tradition,  and  that  stately  and 
splendid  structures  may  be  reared  on  such  a 
foundation.  But  to  see  one  laying  a platform 
over  heretical  quicksands,  thirty  or  forty  or  fifty 
years  deep,  and  then  beginning  to  build  upon  it, 
is  a sorry  sight.  A new  convert  from  the  re- 
formed to  the  ancient  faith  may  be  very  strong 
in  the  arms,  but  he  will  always  have  weak  legs 
and  shaky  knees.  He  may  use  his  hands  well, 
and  hit  hard  with  his  fists,  but  he  will  never 
stand  on  his  legs  in  the  way  the  man  does  who 
inherits  his  belief. 

The  services  were  over  at  last,  and  Dudley 
Venner  and  his  daughter  walked  home  together 
in  silence.  He  always  respected  her  moods,  and 
saw  clearly  enough  that  some  inward  trouble  was 
weighing  upon  her.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
said  in  such  cases,  for  Elsie  could  never  talk  of 
her  griefs.  An  hour,  or  a day,  or  a week  of 
brooding,  with  perhaps  a sudden  flash  of  vio- 
lence : this  was  the  way  in  which  the  impressions 
which  make  other  women  weep,  and  tell  their 
griefs  by  word  or  letter,  showed  their  effects  in 
her  mind  and  acts. 

She  wandered  off  up  into  the  remoter  parts  of 
The  Mountain,  that  day,  after  their  return.  No 
one  saw  just  where  she  went,  — indeed,  no  one 
knew  its  forest-recesses  and  rocky  fastnesses  as 
she  did.  She  was  gone  until  late  at  night ; and 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


229 


when  Old  Sophy,  who  had  watched  for  her,  bound 
up  her  long  hair  for  her  sleep,  it  was  damp  with 
the  cold  dews. 

The  old  black  woman  looked  at  her  without 
speaking,  but  questioning  her  with  every  feature 
as  to  the  sorrow  that  was  weighing  on  her. 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  Old  Sophy. 

“ You  want  to  know  what  there  is  troubling 
me,”  she  said.  u Nobody  loves  me.  I cannot 
love  anybody.  What  is  love,  Sophy  ? ” 

u It’s  what  poor  Ol’  Sophy’s  got  for  her  Elsie,” 
the  old  woman  answered.  “ Tell  me,  darlin’, — 

don’  you  love  somebody  ? — don’  you  love ? 

you  know,  — oh,  tell  me,  darlin’,  don’  you  love  to 
see  the  gen’l’man  that  keeps  up  at  the  school 
where  you  go?  They  say  he’s  the  pootiest  gen - 
’l’man  that  was  ever  in  the  town  here.  Don’  be 
’fraid  of  poor  OF  Sophy,  darlin’,  — she  loved  a 
man  once,  — see  here  ! Oh,  I’ve  showed  you  this 
often  enough ! ” 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a half  of  one  of  the 
old  Spanish  silver  coins,  such  as  were  current  in 
the  earlier  part  of  this  century.  The  other  half 
of  it  had  been  lying  in  the  deep  sea-sand  for  more 
than  fifty  years. 

Elsie  looked  her  in  the  face,  but  did  not  answer 
in  words.  What  strange  intelligence  was  that 
which  passed  between  them  through  the  diamond 
eyes  and  the  little  beady  black  ones  ? — what 
subtile  intercommunication,  penetrating  so  much 
deeper  than  articulate  speech  ? This  was  the 


230 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


nearest  approach  to  sympathetic  relations  that 
Elsie  ever  had  : a kind  of  dumb  intercourse  of 
feeling,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  brute 
mothers  looking  on  their  young.  But,  subtile  as 
it  was,  it  was  narrow  and  individual ; whereas  an 
emotion  which  can  shape  itself  in  language  opens 
the  gate  for  itself  into  the  great  community  of 
human  affections ; for  every  word  we  speak  is 
the  medal  of  a dead  thought  or  feeling,  struck  in 
the  die  of  some  human  experience,  worn  smooth 
by  innumerable  contacts,  and  always  transferred 
warm  from  one  to  another.  By  words  we  share 
the  common  consciousness  of  the  race,  which  has 
shaped  itself  in  these  symbols.  By  music  we 
reach  those  special  states  of  consciousness  which, 
being  without  form , cannot  be  shaped  with  the 
mosaics  of  the  vocabulary.  The  language  of  the 
eyes  runs  deeper  into  the  personal  nature,  but  it 
is  purely  individual,  and  perishes  in  the  expres- 
sion. If  we  consider  them  all  as  growing  out  of 
the  consciousness  as  their  root,  language  is  the 
leaf,  music  is  the  flower ; but  when  the  eyes  meet 
and  search  each  other,  it  is  the  uncovering  of  the 
blanched  stem  through  which  the  whole  life  runs, 
but  which  has  never  taken  color  or  form  from  the 
sunlight. 

For  three  days  Elsie  did  not  return  to  the 
school.  Much  of  the  time  she  was  among  the 
woods  and  rocks.  The  season  was  now  begin- 
ning to  wane,  and  the  forest  to  put  on  its  autum- 
nal glory.  The  dreamy  haze  was  beginning  to 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


231 


soften  tne  landscape,  and  the  most  delicious  days 
of  the  year  were  lending  their  attraction  to  the 
scenery  of  The  Mountain.  It  was  not  very  sin- 
gular that  Elsie  should  be  lingering  in  her  old 
haunts,  from  which  the  change  of  season  must 
soon  ‘drive  her.  But  Old  Sophy  saw  clearly 
enough  that  some  internal  conflict  was  going 
on,  and  knew  very  well  that  it  must  have  its 
own  way  and  work  itself  out  as  it  best  could. 
As  much  as  looks  could  tell  Elsie  had  told  her. 
She  had  said  in  words,  to  be  sure,  that  she  could 
not  love.  Something  warped  and  thwarted  the 
emotion  which  would  have,  been  love  in  another, 
no  doubt ; but  that  such  an  emotion  was  striving 
with  her  against  all  malign  influences  which  in- 
terfered with  it  the  old  woman  had  a perfect  cer- 
tainty in  her  own  mind. 

Everybody  who  has  observed  the  working  of 
emotions  in  persons  of  various  temperaments 
knows  well  enough  that  they  have  periods  of 
incubation , which  differ  with  the  individual,  and 
with  the  particular  cause  and  degree  of  excite- 
ment, yet  evidently  go  through  a strictly  self- 
limited series  of  evolutions,  at  the  end  of  which, 
their  result  — an  act  of  violence,  a paroxysm  of 
tears,  a gradual  subsidence  into  repose,  or  what- 
ever it  may  be  — declares  itself,  like  the  last  stage 
of  an  attack  of  fever  and  ague.  No  one  can  ob- 
serve children  without  noticing  that  there  is  a 
personal  equation , to  use  the  astronomer’s  lan- 
* guage,  in  their  tempers,  so  that  one  sulks  an  hour 


232 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


over  an  offence  which  makes  another  a fury  for 
five  minutes,  and  leaves  him  or  her  an  angel 
when  it  is  over. 

At  the  end  of  three  days,  Elsie  braided  her 
long,  glossy,  black  hair,  and  shot  a golden  arrow 
through  it.  She  dressed  herself  with  more  than 
usual  care,  and  came  down  in  the  morning  superb 
in  her  stormy  beauty.  The  brooding  paroxysm 
was  over,  or  at  least  her  passion  had  changed  its 
phase.  Her  father  saw  it  with  great  relief;  he 
had  always  many  fears  for  her  in  her  hours  and 
days  of  gloom,  but,  for  reasons  before  assigned, 
had  felt  that  she  must  be  trusted  to  herself,  with- 
out appealing  to  actual  restraint,  or  any  other 
supervision  than  such  as  Old  Sophy  could  exer- 
cise without  offence. 

She  went  off  at  the  accustomed  hour  to  the 
school.  All  the  girls  had  their  eyes  on  her.  None 
so  keen  as  these  young  misses  to  know  an  inward 
movement  by  an  outward  sign  of  adornment : if 
they  have  not  as  many  signals  as  the  ships  that 
sail  the  great  seas,  there  is  not  an  end  of  ribbon 
or  a turn  of  a ringlet  which  is  not  a hieroglyphic 
with  a hidden  meaning  to  these  little  cruisers  over 
the  ocean  of  sentiment. 

The  girls  all  looked  at  Elsie  with  a new 
thought;  for  she  was  more  sumptuously  arrayed 
than  perhaps  ever  before  at  the  school ; and  they 
said  to  themselves  that  she  had  come  meaning  to 
draw  the  young  master’s  eyes  upon  her.  That 
was  it;  what  else  could  it  be?  The  beautiful, 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


233 


cold  girl  with  the  diamond  eyes  meant  to  dazzle 
the  handsome  young  gentleman.  He  would  be 
afraid  to  love  her  ; it  couldn’t  be  true,  that  which 
some  people  had  said  in  the  village ; she  wasn’t 
the  kind  of  young  lady  to  make  Mr.  Langdon 
happy.  Those  dark  people  are  never  safe : so 
one  of  the  young  blondes  said  to  herself.  Elsie 
was  not  literary  enough  for  such  a scholar  : so 
thought  Miss  Charlotte  Ann  Wood,  the  young 
poetess.  She  couldn’t  have  a good  temper,  with 
those  scowling  eyebrows : this  was  the  opinion 
of  several  broad-faced,  smiling  girls,  who  thought, 
each  in  her  own  snug  little  mental  sanctum , that, 
if,  etc.,  etc.,  she  could  make  him  so  happy! 

Elsie  had  none  of  the  still,  wicked  light  in  her 
eyes,  that  morning.  She  looked  gentle,  but 
dreamy  ; played  with  her  books;  did  not  trouble 
herself  with  any  of  the  exercises,  — which  in  it- 
self was  not  very  remarkable,  as  she  was  always 
allowed,  under  some  pretext  or  other,  to  have  her 
own  way.  * 

The  school-hours  were  over  at  length.  The 
girls  went  out,  but  she  lingered  to  the  last.  She 
then  came  up  to  Mr.  Bernard,  with  a book  in  her 
hand,  as  if  to  ask  a question. 

“ Will  you  walk  towards  my  home  with  me  to- 
day ? ” she  said,  in  a very  low  voice,  little  more 
than  a whisper. 

Mr.  Bernard  was  startled  by  the  request,  put  in 
such  a way.  He  had  a presentiment  of  some 
painful  scene  or  other.  But  there  was  nothing 


234 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


to  be  done  but  to  assure  her  that  it  would  give 
him  great  pleasure. 

So  they  walked  along  together  on  their  way 
toward  the  Dudley  mansion. 

“ I have  no  friend,”  Elsie  said,  all  at  once. 
“ Nothing  loves  me  but  one  old  woman.  I can- 
not love  anybody.  They  tell  me  there  is  some- 
thing in  my  eyes  that  draws  people  to  me  and 
makes  them  faint.  Look  into  them,  will  you  ? ” 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him.  It  was  very 
pale,  and  the  diamond  eyes  were  glittering  with 
a film,  such  as  beneath  other  lids  would  have 
rounded  into  a tear. 

“ Beautiful  eyes,  Elsie,”  he  said,  — “ sometimes 
very  piercing,  — but  soft  now,  and  looking  as  if 
there  were  something  beneath  them  that  friend- 
ship might  draw  out.  I am  your  friend,  Elsie., 
Tell  me  what  I can  do  to  render  your  life  hap- 
pier.” 

“ Love  me!  ” said  Elsie  Yenner. 

What  shall  a man  do,  when  a wouian  makes 
such  a demand,  involving  such  an  avowal  ? It 
was  the  tenderest,  cruellest,  humblest  moment  of 
Mr.  Bernard’s  life.  He  turned  pale,  he  trembled 
almost,  as  if  he  had  been  a woman  listening  to 
her  lover’s  declaration. 

“ Elsie,”  he  said,  presently,  u I so  long  to  be 
of  some  use  to  you,  to  have  your  confidence  and 
sympathy,  that  I must  not  let  you  say  or  do 
anything  to  put  us  in  false  relations.  I do  love 
you,  Elsie,  as  a suffering  sister  with  sorrows  of 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


235 


her  own,  — as  one  whom  I would  save  at  the 
risk  of  my  happiness  and  life,  — as  one  who 
needs  a true  friend  more  than  any  of  all  the 
young  girls  I have  known.  More  than  this  you 
would  not  ask  me  to  say.  You  have  been 
through  excitement  and  trouble  lately,  and  it 
has  made  you  feel  such  a need  more  than  ever. 
Give  me  your  hand,  dear  Elsie,  and  trust  me  that 
I will  be  as  true  a friend  to  you  as  if  we  were 
children  of  the  same  mother.” 

Elsie  gave  him  her  hand  mechanically.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  a cold  aura  shot  from  it 
along  his  arm  and  chilled  the  blood  running 
through  his  heart.  He  pressed  it  gently,  looked 
at  her  with  a face  full  of  grave  kindness  and 
sad  interest,  then  softly  relinquished  it. 

It  was  all  over  with  poor  Elsie.  They  walked 
almost  in  silence  the  rest  of  the  way.  Mr.  Ber- 
nard left  her  at  the  gate  of  the  mansion-house, 
and  returned  with  sad  forebodings.  Elsie  went 
at  once  to  her  own  room,  and  did  not  come  from 
it  at  the  usual  hours.  At  last  Old  Sophy  be- 
gan to  be  alarmed  about  her,  went  to  her  apart- 
ment, and,  finding  the  door  unlocked,  entered 
cautiously.  She  found  Elsie  lying  on  her  bed, 
her  brows  strongly  contracted,  her  eyes  dull,  her 
whole  look  that  of  great  suffering.  Her  first 
thought  was  that  she  had  been  doing  herself  a 
harm  by  some  deadly  means  or  other.  But 
Elsie  saw  her  fear,  and  reassured  her. 

“ No,”  she  said,  “ there  is  nothing  wrong,  such 


236 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


as  you  are  thinking  of;  I am  not  dying.  You 
may  send  for  the  Doctor ; perhaps  he  can  take 
the  pain  from  my  head.  That  is  all  I want  him 
to  do.  There  is  no  use  in  the  pain,  that  I know 
of;  if  he  can  stop  it,  let  him.” 

So  they  sent  for  the  old  Doctor.  It  was  not 
long  before  the  solid  trot  of  Caustic,  the  old  bay 
horse,  and  the  crashing  of  the  gravel  under  the 
wheels,  gave  notice  that  the  physician  was  driv- 
ing up  the  avenue. 

The  old  Doctor  was  a model  for  visiting  prac- 
titioners. He  always  came  into  the  sick-room 
with  a quiet,  cheerful  look,  as  if  he  had  a con- 
sciousness that  he  was  bringing  some  sure  relief 
with  him.  The  way  a patient  snatches  his  first 
look  at  his  doctor’s  face,  to  see  whether  he  is 
doomed,  whether  he  is  reprieved,  whether  he  is 
unconditionally  pardoned,  has  really  something 
terrible  about  it.  It  is  only  to  be  met  by  an  im- 
perturbable mask  of  serenity,  proof  against  any- 
thing and  everything  in  a patient’s  aspect.  The 
physician  whose  face  reflects  his  patient’s  condi- 
tion like  a mirror  may  do  well  enough  to  exam- 
ine people  for  a life-insurance  office,  but  does  not 
belong  to  the  sick-room.  The  old  Doctor  did  not 
keep  people  waiting  in  dread  suspense,  while  he 
stayed  talking  about  the  case, — the  patient  all  the 
time  thinking  that  he  and  the  friends  are  discuss- 
ing some  alarming  symptom  or  formidable  opera- 
tion which  he  himself  is  by-and-by  to  hear  of. 

He  was  in  Elsie’s  room  almost  before  she 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


237 


knew  he  was  in  the  house.  He  came  to  her 
bedside  in  such  a natural,  quiet  way,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  only  a friend  who  had 
dropped  in  for  a moment  to  say  a pleasant 
word.  Yet  he  was  very  uneasy  about  Elsie 
until  he  had  seen  her ; he  never  knew  what 
might  happen  to  her  or  those  about  her,  and 
came  prepared  for  the  worst. 

“ Sick,  my  child  ? ” he  said,  in  a very  soft, 
low  voice. 

Elsie  nodded,  without  speaking. 

The  Doctor  took  her  hand,  — whether  with 
professional  views,  or  only  in  a friendly  way,  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  tell.  So  he  sat  a few 
minutes,  looking  at  her  all  the  time  with  a kind 
of  fatherly  interest,  but  with  it  all  noting  how 
she  lay,  how  she  breathed,  her  color,  her  expres- 
sion, all  that  teaches  the  practised  eye  so  much 
without  a single  question  being  asked.  He  saw 
she  was  in  suffering,  and  said  presently, — 

“ You  have  pain  somewhere ; where  is  it  ? ” 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  head. 

As  she  was  not  disposed  to  talk,  he  watched 
her  for  a while,  questioned  Old  Sophy  shrewdly 
a few  minutes,  and  so  made  up  his  mind  as  to 
the  probable  cause  of  disturbance  and  the  proper 
remedies  to  be  used. 

Some  very  silly  people  thought  the  old  Doc- 
tor did  not  believe  in  medicine,  because  he  gave 
less  than  certain  poor  half-taught  creatures  in 
the  smaller  neighboring  towns,  who  took  advan- 


238 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


tage  of  people’s  sickness  to  disgust  and  disturb 
them  with  all  manner  of  ill-smelling  and  ill-be- 
having drugs.  In  truth,  he  hated  to  give  any- 
thing noxious  or  loathsome  to  those  who  were 
uncomfortable  enough  already,  unless  he  was 
very  sure  it  would  do  good,  — in  which  case,  he 
never  played  with  drugs,  but  gave  good,  hon- 
est, efficient  doses.  Sometimes  he  lost  a family 
of  the  more  boorish  sort,  because  they  did  not 
think  they  got  their  money’s  worth  out  of  him, 
unless  they  had  something  more  than  a taste  of 
everything  he  carried  in  his  saddle-bags. 

He  ordered  some  remedies  which  he  thought 
would  relieve  Elsie,  and  left  her,  saying  he  would 
call  the  next  day,  hoping  to  find  her  better.  But 
the  next  day  came,  and  the  next,  and  still  Elsie 
was  on  her  bed,  — feverish,  restless,  wakeful,  si- 
lent. At  night  she  tossed  about  and  wandered, 
and  it  became  at  length  apparent  that  there  was 
a settled  attack,  something  like  what  they  called 
formerly,  a “ nervous  fever.” 

On  the  fourth  day  she  was  more  restless  than 
common.  One  of  the  women  of  the  house  came 
in  to  help  to  take  care  of  her ; but  she  showed 
an  aversion  to  her  presence. 

u Send  me  Helen  Darley,”  she  said,  at  last. 

The  old  Doctor  told  them,  that,  if  possible,  they 
must  indulge  this  fancy  of  hers.  The  caprices 
of  sick  people  were  never  to  be  despised,  least 
of  all  of  such  persons  as  Elsie,  when  rendered 
irritable  and  exacting  by  pain  and  weakness. 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


239 


So  a message  was  sent  to  Mr.  Silas  Peckham, 
at  the  Apollinean  Institute,  to  know  if  lie  could 
not  spare  Miss  Helen  Darley  for  a few  days,  if 
required,  to  give  her  attention  to  a young  lady 
who  attended  his  school  and  who  was  now  lying 
ill, — no  other  person  than  the  daughter  of  Dudley 
Yenner. 

A mean  man  never  agrees  to  anything  without 
deliberately  turning  it  over,  so  that  he  may  see 
its  dirty  side,  and,  if  he  can,  sweating  the  coin 
he  pays  for  it.  If  an  archangel  should  offer  to 
save  his  soul  for  sixpence,  he  would  try  to  find 
a sixpence  with  a hole  in  it.  A gentleman  says 
yes  to  a great  many  things  without  stopping  to 
think : a shabby  fellow  is  known  by  his  caution 
in  answering  questions,  for  fear  of  compromising 
his  pocket  or  himself. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  looked  very  grave  at  the 
request.  The  dooties  of  Miss  Darley  at  the  In- 
stitoot  were  important,  very  important.  He  paid 
her  large  sums  of  money  for  her  time,  — more 
than  she  could  expect  to  get  in  any  other  insti- 
tootion  for  the  edoocation  of  female  youth.  A 
deduction  from  her  selary  would  be  necessary,  in 
case  she  should  retire  from  the  sphere  of  her 
dooties  for  a season.  He  should  be  put  to  extry 
expense,  and  have  to  perform  additional  labors 
himself.  He  would  consider  of  the  matter.  If 
any  arrangement  could  be  made,  he  would  send 
word  to  Squire  Vernier’s  folks. 

“ Miss  Darley,”  said  Silas  Peckham,  u the’  ’s  a 


240 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


message  from  Squire  Venner’s  that  his  daughter 
wants  you  down  at  the  mansion-house  to  see  her. 
She’s  got  a fever,  so  they  inform  me.  If  it’s  any 
kind  of  ketchin’  fever,  of  course  you  won’t  think 
of  goin’  near  the  mansion-house.  If  Doctor  Kit- 
tredge  says  it’s  safe,  perfec’ly  safe,  I can’t  objec’ 
to  your  goin’,  on  sech  conditions  as  seem  to  be 
fair  to  all  concerned.  You  will  give  up  your  pay 
for  the  whole  time  you  are  absent,  — portions  of 
days  to  be  caounted  as  whole  days.  You  will  be 
charged  with  board  the  same  as  if  you  eat  your 
victuals  with  the  household.  The  victuals  are  of 
no  use  after  they’re  cooked  but  to  be  eat,  and 
your  bein’  away  is  no  savin’  to  our  folks.  I shall 
charge  you  a reasonable  compensation  for  the 
demage  to  the  school  by  the  absence  of  a teacher. 
If  Miss  Crabs  undertakes  any  dooties  belongin’ 
to  your  department  of  instruction,  she  will  look 
to  you  for  sech  pecooniary  considerations  as  you 
may  agree  upon  between  you.  On  these  condi- 
tions I am  willin’  to  give  my  consent  to  your 
temporary  absence  from  the  post  of  dooty.  I 
will  step  down  to  Doctor  Kittredge’s,  myself, 
and  make  inquiries  as  to  the  natur’  of  the  com- 
plaint.” 

Mr.  Peckham  took  up  a rusty  and  very  narrow- 
brimmed  hat,  which  he  cocked  upon  one  side  of 
his  head,  with  an  air  peculiar  to  the  rural  gentry. 
It  was  the  hour  when  the  Doctor  expected  to  be 
in  his  office,  unless  he  had  some  special  call  which 
kept  him  from  home. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


241 


He  found  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather 
just  taking  leave  of  the  Doctor.  His  hand  was 
on  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  and  his  countenance 
expressive  of  inward  uneasiness. 

“ Shake  it  before  using,”  said  the  Doctor;  “ and 
the  sooner  you  make  up  your  mind  to  speak  right 
out,  the  better  it  will  be  for  your  digestion.” 

“Oh,  Mr.  Peck  ham  ! Walk  in,  Mr.  Peckham  ! 
Nobody  sick  up  at  the  school,  I hope  ? ” 

“ The  haalth  of  the  school  is  fust-rate,”  replied 
Mr.  Peckham.  “ The  sitooation  is  uncommonly 
favorable  to  saloobrity.”  (These  last  words  were 
from  the  Annual  Report  of  the  past  year.)  “ Prov- 
idence has  spared  our  female  youth  in  a remarka- 
ble measure.  I’ve  come  with  reference  to  another 
consideration.  Doctor  Kittredge,  is  there  any 
ketchin’  complaint  goin’  about  in  the  village  ? ” 

“ Well,  yes,”  said  the  Doctor,  “ I should  say 
there  was  something  of  that  sort.  Measles. 
Mumps.  And  Sin,  — that’s  always  catching.” 
The  old  Doctor’s  eye  twinkled ; once  in  a while 
he  had  his  little  touch  of  humor. 

Silas  Peckham  slanted  his  eye  up  suspiciously 
at  the  Doctor,  as  if  he  was  getting  some  kind  of 
advantage  over  him.  That  is  the  way  people 
of  his  constitution  are  apt  to  take  a bit  of  pleas- 
antry. 

“ I don’t  mean  sech  things,  Doctor ; I mean 
fevers.  Is  there  any  ketchin’  fevers  — bilious,  or 
nervous,  or  typus,  or  whatever  you  call  ’em  — now 


242 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


goin’  round  this  village  ? That’s  what  I want  to 
ascertain,  if  there’s  no  impropriety.” 

The  old  Doctor  looked  at  Silas  through  his 
spectacles. 

44  Hard  and  sour  as  a green  cider-apple,”  he 
thought  to  himself.  44  No,”  he  said,  — 46 1 don’t 
know  any  such  cases.” 

44  What’s  the  matter  with  Elsie  Yenner  ? ” 
asked  Silas,  sharply,  as  if  he  expected  to  have 
him  this  time. 

44  A mild  feverish  attack,  I should  call  it  in  any- 
body else  ; but  she  has  a peculiar  constitution, 
and  I never  feel  so  safe  about  her  as  I should 
about  most  people.” 

44  Anything  ketchin’  about  it  ? ” Silas  asked, 
cunningly. 

44  No,  indeed ! ” said  the  Doctor,  — 44  catching  ? 
— no,  — what  put  that  into  your  head,  Mr.  Peck- 
ham  ? ” 

44  Well,  Doctor,”  the  conscientious  Principal  an- 
swered, 44 1 naterally  feel  a graat  responsibility,  a 
very  gra'aat  responsibility,  for  the  noomerous  and 
lovely  young  ladies  committed  to  my  charge.  It 
has  been  a question,  whether  one  of  my  assistants 
should  go,  accordin’  to  request,  to  stop  with  Miss 
Yenner  for  a season.  Nothin’  restrains  my  givin’ 
my  full  and  free  consent  to  her  goin’  but  the  fear  lest 
contagious  maladies  should  be  introdooced  among 
those  lovely  female  youth.  I shall  abide  by  your 
opinion,  — I understan’  you  to  say  distinctly,  her 
complaint  is  not  ketchin’  ? — and  urge  upon  Miss 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


243 


Darley  to  fulfil  her  dooties  to  a sufferin’  fellow- 
creature  at  any  cost  to  myself  and  my  establish- 
ment. We  shall  miss  her  very  much  ; but  it  is  a 
good  cause,  and  she  shall  go,  — and  I shall  trust 
that  Providence  will  enable  us  to  spare  her  with- 
out permanent  demage  to  the  interests  of  the  In- 
stitootion.” 

Saying  this,  the  excellent  Principal  departed, 
with  his  rusty  narrow-brimmed  hat  leaning  over, 
as  if  it  had  a six-knot  breeze  abeam,  and  its  gun- 
wale (so  to  speak)  was  dipping  into  his  coat-col- 
lar. He  announced  the  result  of  his  inquiries  to 
Helen,  who  had  received  a brief  note  in  the  mean 
time  from  a poor  relation  of  Elsie’s  mother,  then 
at  the  mansion-house,  informing  her  of  the  criti- 
cal situation  of  Elsie  and  of  her  urgent  desire 
that  Helen  should  be  with  her.  She  could  not 
hesitate.  She  blushed  as  she  thought  of  the 
comments  that  might  be  made;  but  what  were 
such  considerations  in  a matter  of  life  and  death? 
She  could  not  stop  to  make  terms  with  Silas 
Peckham.  She  must  go.  He  might  fleece  her, 
if  he  would  ; she  would  not  complain, — not  even 
to  Bernard,  who,  she  knew,  would  bring  the  Prin- 
cipal to  terms,  if  she  gave  the  least  hint  of  his  in- 
tended extortions. 

So  Helen  made  up  her  bundle  of  clothes  to  be 
sent  after  her,  took  a book  or  two  with  her  to  help 
her  pass  the  time,  and  departed  for  the  Dudley 
mansion.  It  was  with  a great  inward  effort  that 
she  undertook  the  sisterly  task  which  was  thus 


244 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


forced  upon  her.  She  had  a kind  of  terror  of 
Elsie  ; and  the  thought  of  having  charge  of  her, 
of  being  alone  with  her,  of  coming  under  the  full 
influence  of  those  diamond  eyes,  — if,  indeed, 
their  light  were  not  dimmed  by  suffering  and 
weariness, — was  one  she  shrank  from.  But  what 
could  she  do  ? It  might  be  a turning-point  in 
the  life  of  the  poor  girl ; and  she  must  overcome 
all  her  fears,  all  her  repugnance,  and  go  to  her 
rescue. 

“ Is  Helen  come  ? ” said  Elsie,  when  she  heard, 
with  her  fine  sense  quickened  by  the  irritability  of 
sickness,  a light  footfall  on  the  stair,  with  a ca- 
dence unlike  that  of  any  inmate  of  the  house. 

“ It’s  a strange  woman’s  step,”  said  Old  Sophy, 
who,  with  her  exclusive  love  for  Elsie,  was  natu- 
rally disposed  to  jealousy  of  a new-comer.  “ Let 
Ol’  Sophy  set  at  th’  foot  o’  th’  bed,  if  th’  young 
missis  sets  by  th’  piller,  — won’  y’,  darlin’  ? The’ 
’s  nobody  that’s  white  can  love  y’  as  th’  ol’  black 
woman  does  ; — don’  sen’  her  away,  now,  there’s 
a dear  soul ! ” 

Elsie  motioned  her  to  sit  in  the  place  she  had 
pointed  to,  and  Helen  at  that  moment  entered 
the  room.  Dudley  Venner  followed  her. 

“ She  is  your  patient,”  he  said,  “ except  while 
the  Doctor  is  here.  She  has  been  longing  to  have 
you  with  her,  and  we  shall  expect  you  to  make 
her  well  in  a few  days.” 

So  Helen  Darley  found  herself  established  in 
the  most  unexpected  manner  as  an  inmate  of  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


245 


Dudley  mansion.  She  sat  with  Elsie  most  of  the 
time,  by  day  and  by  night,  soothing  her,  and  try- 
ing to  enter  into  her  confidence  and  affections,  if 
it  should  prove  that  this  strange  creature  was 
really  capable  of  truly  sympathetic  emotions. 

What  was  this  unexplained  something  which 
came  between  her  soul  and  that  of  every  other 
human  being  with  whom  she  was  in  relations  ? 
Helen  perceived,  or  rather  felt,  that  she  had,  folded 
up  in  the  depths  of  her  being,  a true  womanly 
nature.  Through  the  cloud  that  darkened  her  as- 
pect, now  and  then  a ray  would  steal  forth,  which, 
like  the  smile  of  stern  and  solemn  people,  was  all 
the  more  impressive  from  its  contrast  with  the  ex- 
pression she  wore  habitually.  It  might  well  be 
that  pain  and  fatigue  had  changed  her  aspect; 
but,  at  any  rate,  Helen  looked  into  her  eyes  with- 
out that  nervous  agitation  which  their  cold  glitter 
had  produced  on  her  when  they  were  full  of  their 
natural  light.  She  felt  sure  that  her  mother  must 
have  been  a lovely,  gentle  woman.  There  were 
gleams  of  a beautiful  nature  shining  through 
some  ill-defined  medium  which  disturbed  and 
made  them  flicker  and  waver,  as  distant  images 
do  when  seen  through  the  rippling  upward  cur- 
rents of  heated  air.  She  loved,  in  her  own  way, 
the  old  black  woman,  and  seemed  to  keep  up  a 
kind  of  silent  communication  with  her,  as  if  they 
did  not  require  the  use  of  speech.  She  appeared 
to  be  tranquillized  by  the  presence  of  Helen,  and 
loved  to  have  her  seated  at  the  bedside.  Yet 


246 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


something,  whatever  it  was,  prevented  her  from 
opening  her  heart  to  her  kind  companion  ; and 
even  now  there  were  times  when  she  would  lie 
looking  at  her,  with  such  a still,  watchful,  almost 
dangerous  expression,  that  Helen  would  sigh,  and 
change  her  place,  as  persons  do  whose  breath 
some  cunning  orator  has  been  sucking  out  of 
them  with  his  spongy  eloquence,  so  that,  when 
he  stops,  they  must  get  some  air  and  stir  about, 
or  they  feel  as  if  they  should  be  half-smothered 
and  palsied. 

It  was  too  much  to  keep  guessing  what  was 
the  meaning  of  all  this.  Helen  determined  to 
ask  Old  Sophy  some  questions  which  might 
probably  throw  light  upon  her  doubts.  She 
took  the  opportunity  one  evening  when  Elsie 
was  lying  asleep  and  they  were  both  sitting  at 
some  distance  from  her  bed. 

“ Tell  me,  Sophy,”  she  said,  “ was  Elsie  al- 
ways as  shy  as  she  seems  to  be  now,  in  talking 
with  those  to  whom  she  is  friendly  ? ” 

“ Alway  jes’  so,  Miss  Darlin’,  ever  sence  she 
was  little  chil’.  When  she  was  five,  six  vear 
old,  she  lisp  some,  — call  me  Tliophy ; that  make 
her  kin’  o’  ’shamed,  perhaps : after  she  grow  up, 
she  never  lisp,  but  she  kin’  o’  got  the  way  o’  not 
talkin’  much.  Fac’  is,  she  don’  like  talkin’  as 
common  gals  do,  ’xcep’  jes’  once  in  a while  wi’ 
some  partic’lar  folks,  — ’n’  then  not  much.”  - 
66  How  old  is  Elsie  ? ” 

“ Eighteen  year  this  las’  September.” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


247 


“ How  long  ago  did  her  mother  die  ? ” Helen 
asked,  with  a little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

“ Eighteen  year  ago  this  October,”  said  Old 
Sophy. 

Helen  was  silent  for  a moment.  Then  she 
whispered,  almost  inaudibly,  — for  her  voice  ap- 
peared to  fail  her,  — 

“ What  did  her  mother  die  of,  Sophy?” 

The  old  woman’s  small  eyes  dilated  until  a 
ring  of  white  showed  round  their  beady  cen- 
tres. She  caught  Helen  by  the  hand  and  clung 
to  it,  as  if  in  fear.  She  looked  round  at  Elsie, 
who  lay  sleeping,  as  if  she  might  be  listening. 
Then  she  drew  Helen  towards  her  and  led  her 
softly  out  of  the  room. 

u’Sh! — ’sh!”  she  said,  as  soon  as  they  were 
outside  the  door.  “ Don’  never  speak  in  this 
house  ’bout  what  Elsie’s  mother  died  of!”  she 
said.  u Nobody  never  says  nothin’  ’bout  it.  Oh, 
God  has  made  Ugly  Things  wi’  death  in  their 
mouths,  Miss  Darlin’,  an’  He  knows  what  they’re 
for ; but  my  poor  Elsie ! — to  have  her  blood 
changed  in  her  before It  was  in  July  Mis- 

tress got  her  death,  but  she  liv’  till  three  week 
after  my  poor  Elsie  was  born.” 

She  could  speak  no  more.  She  had  said 
enough.  Helen  remembered  the  stories  she  had 
heard  on  coming  to  the  village,  and  among  them 
one  referred  to  in  an  early  chapter  of  this  narra- 
tive. All  the  unaccountable  looks  and  tastes 
and  ways  of  Elsie  came  back  to  her  in  the  light 


248 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


of  an  ante-natal  impression  which  had  mingled 
an  alien  element  in  her  nature.  She  knew  the 
secret  of  the  fascination  which  looked  out  of  her 
cold,  glittering  eyes.  She  knew  the  significance 
of  the  strange  repulsion  which  she  felt  in  her 
own  intimate  consciousness  underlying  the  in- 
explicable attraction  which  drew  her  towards 
the  young  girl  in  spite  of  this  repugnance.  She 
began  to  look  with  new  feelings  on  the  contra- 
dictions in  her  moral  nature,  — the  longing  for 
sympathy,  as  shown  by  her  wishing  for  Helen’s 
company,  and  the  impossibility  of  passing  be- 
yond the  cold  circle  of  isolation  within  which 
she  had  her  being.  The  fearful  truth  of  that 
instinctive  feeling  of  hers,  that  there  was  some- 
thing not  human  looking  out  of  Elsie’s  eyes, 
came  upon  her  with  a sudden  flash  of  penetrat- 
ing conviction.  There  were  two  warring  princi- 
ples in  that  superb  organization  and  proud  soul. 
One  made  her  a woman,  with  all  a woman’s 
powers  and  longings.  The  other  chilled  all  the 
currents  of  outlet  for  her  emotions.  It  made  her 
tearless  and  mute,  when  another  woman  would 
have  wept  and  pleaded.  And  it  infused  into 
her  soul  something  — it  was  cruel  now  to  call 
it  malice  — which  was  still  and  watchful  and 
dangerous,  — which  waited  its  opportunity,  and 
then  shot  like  an  arrow  from  its  bow  out  of  the 
coil  of  brooding  premeditation.  Even  those  who 
had  never  seen  the  white  scars  on  Dick  Venner’s 
wrist,  or  heard  the  half-told  story  of  her  sup- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


249 


posed  attempt  to  do  a graver  mischief,  knew 
well  enough  by  looking  at  her  that  she  was  one 
of  the  creatures  not  to  be  tampered  with,  — 
silent  in  anger  and  swift  in  vengeance. 

Helen  could  not  return  to  the  bedside  at  once 
after  this  communication.  It  was  with  altered 
eyes  that  she  must  look  on  the  poor  girl,  the 
victim  of  such  an  unheard-of  fatality.  All  was 
explained  to  her  now.  But  it  opened  such 
depths  of  solemn  thought  in  her  awakened  con- 
sciousness, that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  mys- 
tery of  human  life  were  coming  up  again  before 
her  for  trial  and  judgment.  “ Oh,”  she  thought, 
“ if,  while  the  will  lies  sealed  in  its  fountain,  it 
may  be  poisoned  at  its  very  source,  so  that  it 
shall  flow  dark  and  deadly  through  its  whole 
course,  who  are  we  that  we  should  judge  our 
fellow-creatures  by  ourselves  ? ” Then  came  the 
terrible  question,  how  far  the  elements  them- 
selves are  capable  of  perverting  the  moral  na- 
ture : if  valor,  and  justice,  and  truth,  the  strength 
of  man  and  the  virtue  of  woman,  may  not  be 
poisoned  out  of  a race  by  the  food  of  the  Aus- 
tralian in  his  forest,  — by  the  foul  air  and 
darkness  of  the  Christians  cooped  up  in  the 
“ tenement-houses  ” close  by  those  who  live  in 
the  palaces  of  the  great  cities? 

She  walked  out  into  the  garden,  lost  in  thought 
upon  these  dark  and  deep  matters.  Presently 
she  heard  a step  behind  her,  and  Elsie’s  father 
came  up  and  joined  her.  Since  his  introduction 


250 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


to  Helen  at  the  distinguished  tea-party  given  by 
the  Widow  Rowens,  and  before  her  coming  to 
sit  with  Elsie,  Mr.  Dudley  Yenner  had  in  the 
most  accidental  way  in  the  world  met  her  on 
several  occasions : once  after  church,  when  she 
happened  to  be  caught  in  a slight  shower  and  he 
insisted  on  holding  his  umbrella  over  her  on  her 
way  home ; — once  at  a small  party  at  one  of  the 
mansion-houses,  where  the  quick-eyed  lady  of  the 
house  had  a wonderful  knack  of  bringing  people 
together  who  liked  to  see  each  other; — perhaps 
at  other  times  and  places ; but  of  this  there  is  no 
certain  evidence. 

They  naturally  spoke  of  Elsie,  her  illness,  and 
the  aspect  it  had  taken.  But  Helen  noticed  in 
all  that  Dudley  Yenner  said  about  his  daughter 
a morbid  sensitiveness,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  an 
aversion  to  saying  much  about  her  physical  con- 
dition or„  her  peculiarities,  — a wish  to  feel  and 
speak  as  a parent  should,  and  yet  a shrinking, 
as  if  there  were  something  about  Elsie  which 
he  could  not  bear  to  dwell  upon.  She  thought 
she  saw  through  all  this,  and  she  could  interpret 
it  all  charitably.  There  were  circumstances 
about  his  daughter  which  recalled  the  great 
sorrow  of  his  life  ; it  was  not  strange  that  this 
perpetual  reminder  should  in  some  degree  have 
modified  his  feelings  as  a father.  But  what  a 
life  he  must  have  been  leading  for  so  many 
years,  with  this  perpetual  source  of  distress 
which  he  could  not  name!  Helen  knew  well 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


251 


enough,  now,  the  meaning  of  the  sadness  which 
had  left  such  traces  in  his  features  and  tones, 
and  it  made  her  feel  very  kindly  and  compas- 
sionate towards  him. 

So  they  walked  over  the  crackling  leaves  in 
the  garden,  between  the  lines  of  box  breathing 
its  fragrance  of  eternity;  — for  this  is  one  of  the 
odors  which  carry  us  out  of  time  into  the  abysses 
of  the  unbeginning  past ; if  we  ever  lived  on  an- 
other ball  of  stone  than  this,  it  must  be  that  there 
was  box  growing  on  it.  So  they  walked,  finding 
their  way  softly  to  each  other’s  sorrows  and  sym- 
pathies, each  matching  some  counterpart  to  the 
other’s  experience  of  life,  and  startled  to  see  how 
the  different,  yet  parallel,  lessons  they  had  been 
taught  by  suffering  had  led  them  step  by  step  to 
the  same  serene  acquiescence  in  the  orderings  of 
that  Supreme  Wisdom  which  they  both  devoutly 
recognized. 

Old  Sophy  was  at  the  window  and  saw  them 
walking  up  and  down  the  garden-alleys.  She 
watched  them  as  her  grandfather  the  savage 
watched  the  figures  that  moved  among  the 
trees  when  a hostile  tribe  was  lurking  about  his 
mountain. 

“ There’ll  be  a weddin’  in  the  ol’  house,”  she 
said,  u before  there’s  roses  on  them  bushes  ag’in. 
But  it  won’  be  my  poor  Elsie’s  weddin’,  ’n’  Ol’ 
Sophy  won’  be  there.” 

When  Helen  prayed  in  the  silence  of  her  soul 
that  evening,  it  was  not  that  Elsie’s  life  might  be 


252 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


spared.  She  dared  not  ask  that  as  a favor  of 
Heaven.  What  could  life  be  to  her  but  a perpet- 
ual anguish,  and  to  those  about  her  an  ever- 
present terror  ? Might  she  but  be  so  influenced 
by  divine  grace,  that  what  in  her  was  most  truly 
human,  most  purely  woman-like,  should  overcome 
the  dark,  cold,  unmentionable  instinct  which  had 
pervaded  her  being  like  a subtile  poison  : that  was 
all  she  could  ask,  and  the  rest  she  left  to  a higher 
wisdom  and  tenderer  love  than  her  own. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


253 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  WHITE  ASH. 

When  Helen  returned  to  Elsie’s  bedside,  it 
was  with  a new  and  still  deeper  feeling  of  sym- 
pathy, such  as  the  story  told  by  Old  Sophy  might 
well  awaken.  She  understood,  as  never  before, 
the  singular  fascination  and  as  singular  repulsion 
which  she  had  long  felt  in  Elsie’s  presence.  It 
had  not  been  without  a great  effort  that  she  had 
forced  herself  to  become  the  almost  constant  at- 
tendant of  the  sick  girl ; and  now  she  was  learn- 
ing, but  not  for  the  first  time,  the  blessed  truth 
which  so  many  good  women  have  found  out  for 
themselves,  that  the  hardest  duty  bravely  per- 
formed soon  becomes  a habit,  and  tends  in  due 
time  to  transform  itself  into  a pleasure. 

The  old  Doctor  was  beginning  to  look  graver, 
in  spite  of  himself.  The  fever,  if  such  it  was, 
went  gently  forward,  wasting  the  young  girl’s 
powers  of  resistance  from  day  to  day;  yet  she 
showed  no  disposition  to  take  nourishment,  and 
seemed  literally  to  be  living  on  air.  It  was  re- 
markable that  with  all  this  her  look  was  almost 
natural,  and  her  features  were  hardly  sharpened 


254 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


so  as  to  suggest  that  her  life  was  burning  away. 
He  did  not  like  this,  nor  various  other  unobtru- 
sive signs  of  danger  which  his  practised  eye  de- 
tected. A very  small  matter  might  turn  the 
balance  which  held  life  and  death  poised  against 
each  other.  He  surrounded  her  with  precau- 
tions, that  Nature  might  have  every  opportunity 
of  cunningly  shifting  the  weights  from  the  scale 
of  death  to  the  scale  of  life,  as  she  wil]  often  do, 
if  not  rudely  disturbed  or  interfered  with. 

Little  tokens  of  good-will  and  kind  remem- 
brance were  constantly  coming  to  her  from  the 
girls  in  the  school  and  the  good  people  in  the 
village.  Some  of  the  mansion-house  people  ob- 
tained rare  flowers  which  they  sent  her,  and  her 
table  was  covered  with  fruits  which  tempted  her 
in  vain.  Several  of  the  school-girls  wished  to 
make  her  a basket  of  their  own  handiwork,  and, 
filling  it  with  autumnal  flowers,  to  send  it  as  a 
joint  offering.  Mr.  Bernard  found  out  their  proj- 
ect accidentally,  and,  wishing  to  have  his  share  in 
it,  brought  home  from  one  of  his  long  walks  some 
boughs  full  of  variously  tinted  leaves,  such  as 
were  still  clinging  to  the  stricken  trees.  With 
these  he  brought  also  some  of  the  already  fallen 
leaflets  of  the  white  ash,  remarkable  for  their  rich 
olive-purple  color,  forming  a beautiful  contrast 
with  some  of  the  lighter-hued  leaves.  It  so  hap- 
pened that  this  particular  tree,  the  white  ash,  did 
not  grow  upon  The  Mountain,  and  the  leaflets 
were  more  welcome  for  their  comparative  rarity. 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


255 


So  the  girls  made  their  basket,  and  the  floor  of 
it  they  covered  with  the  rich  olive-purple  leaflets. 
Such  late  flowers  as  they  could  lay  their  hands 
upon  served  to  fill  it,  and  with  many  kindly  mes- 
sages they  sent  it  to  Miss  Elsie  Vernier  at  the 
Dudley  mansion-house. 

Elsie  was  sitting  up  in  her  bed  when  it  came, 
languid,  but  tranquil,  and  Helen  was  by  her,  as 
usual,  holding  her  hand,  which  was  strangely  cold, 
Helen  thought,  for  one  who  was  said  to  have 
some  kind  of  fever.  The  school-girls’  basket  was 
brought  in  with  its  messages  of  love  and  hopes 
for  speedy  recovery.  Old  Sophy  was  delighted 
to  see  that  it  pleased  Elsie,  and  laid  it  on  the 
bed  before  her.  Elsie  began  looking  at  the  flow- 
ers and  taking  them  from  the  basket,  that  she 
might  see  the  leaves.  All  at  once  she  appeared 
to  be  agitated ; she  looked  at  the  basket,  — then 
around,  as  if  there  were  some  fearful  presence 
about  her  which  she  was  searching  for  with  her  t 
eager  glances.  She  took  out  the  flowers,  one  by 
one,  her  breathing  growing  hurried,  her  eyes  star- 
ing, her  hands  trembling,  — till,  as  she  came  near 
the  bottom  of  the  basket,  she  flung  out  all  the 
rest  with  a hasty  movement,  looked  upon  the 
olive-purple  leaflets  as  if  paralyzed  for  a moment, 
shrunk  up,  as  it  were,  into  herself  in  a curdling 
terror,  dashed  the  basket  from  her,  and  fell  back 
senseless,  with  a faint  cry  which  chilled  the  blood 
of  the  startled  listeners  at  her  bedside. 

“ Take  it  away  ! — take  it  away  ! — quick  ! 


256 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


said  Old  Sophy,  as  she  hastened  to  her  mistress’s 
pillow.  “ It’s  the  leaves  of  the  tree  that  was  al- 
ways death  to  her,  — take  it  away ! She  can’t 
live  wi’  it  in  the  room ! ” 

The  poor  old  woman  began  chafing  Elsie’s 
hands,  and  Helen  to  try  to  rouse  her  with  harts- 
horn, while  a third  frightened  attendant  gathered 
up  the  flowers  and  the  basket  and  carried  them 
out  of  the  apartment.  She  came  to  herself  after 
a time,  but  exhausted  and  then  wandering.  In 
her  delirium  she  talked  constantly  as  if  she  were 
in  a cave,  with  such  exactness  of  circumstance 
that  Helen  could  not  doubt  at  all  that  she  had 
some  such  retreat  among  the  rocks  of  The  Moun- 
tain, probably  fitted  up  in  her  own  fantastic  way, 
where  she  sometimes  hid  herself  from  all  human 
eyes,  and  of  thejentrance  to  which  she  alone  pos- 
sessed the  secret. 

All  this  passed  away,  and  left  her,  of  course, 
weaker  than  before.  But  this  was  not  the  only 
influence  the  unexplained  paroxysm  had  left  be- 
hind it.  From  this  time  forward  there  was  a 
change  in  her  whole  expression  and  her  manner. 
The  shadows  ceased  flitting  over  her  features, 
and  the  old  woman,  who  watched  her  from  day 
to  day  and  from  hour  to  hour  as  a mother 
watches  her  child,  saw  the  likeness  she  bore  to 
her  mother  coming  forth  more  and  more,  as  the 
cold  glitter  died  out  of  the  diamond  eyes,  and 
the  stormy  scowl  disappeared  from  the  dark  brows 
and  low  forehead. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


257 


With  all  the  kindness  and  indulgence  her  fa- 
ther had  bestowed  upon  her,  Elsie  had  never  felt 
that  he  loved  her.  The  reader  knows  well  enough 
what  fatal  recollections  and  associations  had 
frozen  up  the  springs  of  natural  affection  in 
his  breast.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world 
he  would  not  do  for  Elsie.  He  had  sacrificed  his 
whole  life  to  her.  His  very  seeming  carelessness 
about  restraining  her  was  all  calculated ; he 
knew  that  restraint  would  produce  nothing  but 
utter  alienation.  Just  so  far  as  she  allowed  him, 
he  shared  her  studies,  her  few  pleasures,  her 
thoughts ; but  she  was  essentially  solitary  and 
uncommunicative.  No  person,  as  was  said  long 
ago,  could  judge  him,  — because  his  task  was 
not  merely  difficult,  but  simply  impracticable  to 
human  powers.  A nature  like  Elsie’s  had  neces- 
sarily to  be  studied  by  itself,  and  to  be  followed 
in  its  laws  where  it  could  not  be  led. 

Every  day,  at  different  hours,  during  the  whole 
of  his  daughter’s  illness,  Dudley  Yenner  had  sat 
by  her,  doing  all  he  could  to  soothe  and  please 
her.  Always  the  same  thin  film  of  some  emo- 
tional non-conductor  between  them  ; always  that 
kind  of  habitual  regard  and  family-interest,  min- 
gled with  the  deepest  pity  on  one  side  and  a sort 
of  respect  on  "the  other,  which  never  warmed  into 
outward  evidences  of  affection. 

It  was  after  -this  occasion,  when  she  had  been 
so  profoundly  agitated  by  a seemingly  insignifi- 
cant cause,  that  her  father  and  Old  Sophy  were 

VOL.  II.  IT 


258 


ELSIE  VEtfNER. 


sitting,  one  at  one  side  of  her  bed  and  one  at  the 
other.  She  had  fallen  into  a light  slumber.  As 
they  were  looking  at  her,  the  same  thought  came 
into  both  their  minds  at  the  same  moment.  Old 
Sophy  spoke  for  both,  as  she  said,  in  a low 
voice,  — 

“ It’s  her  mother’s  look,  — it’s  her  mother’s 
own  face  right  over  again,  — she  never  look’  so 
before,  — the  Lord’s  hand  is  on  her  ! His  will  be 
done ! ” 

When  Elsie  woke  and  lifted  her  languid  eyes 
upon  her  father’s  face,  she  saw  in  it  a tenderness, 
a depth  of  affection,  such  as  she  remembered  at 
rare  moments  of  her  childhood,  when  she  had 
won  him  to  her  by  some  unusual  gleam  of  sun- 
shine in  her  fitful  temper. 

“ Elsie,  dear,”  he  said,  “ we  were  thinking  how 
much  your  expression  was  sometimes  like  that 
of  your  sweet  mother.  If  you  could  but  have 
seen  her,  so  as  to  remember  her ! ” 

The  tender  look  and  tone,  the  yearning  of  the 
daughter’s  heart  for  the  mother  she  had  never 
seen,  save  only  with  the  unfixed,  undistinguish- 
ing eyes  of  earliest  infancy,  perhaps  the  under- 
thought that  she  might  soon  rejoin  her  in  another 
state  of  being,  — all  came  upon  her  with  a sudden 
overflow  of  feeling  which  broke  thfough  all  the 
barriers  between  her  heart  and  her  eyes,  and 
Elsie  wept.  It  seemed  to  her  father  as  if  the 
malign  influence  — evil  spirit  it  might  almost 
be  called  — which  had  pervaded  her  being,  had 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


259 


at  last  been  driven  forth  or  exorcised,  and  that 
these  tears  were  at  once  the  sign  and  the  pledge 
of  her  redeemed  nature.  But  now  she  was  to  be 
soothed,  and  not  excited.  After  her  tears  she 
slept  again,  and  the  look  her  face  wore  was 
peaceful  as  never  before. 

Old  Sophy  met  the  Doctor  at  the  door  and 
told  him  all  the  circumstances  connected  with 
the  extraordinary  attack  from  which  Elsie  had 
suffered.  It  was  the  purple  leaves,  she  said. 
She  remembered  that  Dick  once  brought  home 
a branch  of  a tree  with  some  of  the  same  leaves 
on  it,  -and  Elsie  screamed  and  almost  fainted 
then.  She,  Sophy,  had  asked  her,  after  she  had 
got  quiet,  what  it  was  in  the  leaves  that  made 
her  feel  so  bad.  Elsie  couldn’t  tell  her,  — didn’t 
like  to  speak  about  it,  — shuddered  whenever 
Sophy  mentioned  it. 

This  did  not  sound  so  strangely  to  the  old 
Doctor  as  it  does  to  some  who  listen  to  this 
narrative.  He  had  known  some  curious  exam- 
ples of  antipathies,  and  remembered  reading  of 
others  still  more  singular.  He  had  known  those 
who  could  not  bear  the  presence  of  a cat,  and 
recollected  the  story,  often  told,  of  a person’s 
hiding  one  in  a chest  when  one  of  these  sensi- 
tive individuals  came  into  the  room,  so  as  not 
to  disturb  him ; but  he  presently  began  to  sweat 
and  turn  pale,  and  cried  out  that  there  must  be  a 
cat  hid  somewhere.  He  knew  people  who  were 
poisoned  by  strawberries,  by  honey,  by  different 


260 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


meats,  — many  who  could  not  endure  cheese, — 
some  who  could  not  bear  the  smell  of  roses.  If 
he  had  known  all  the  stories  in  the  old  books,  he 
would  have  found  that  some  have  swooned  and 
become  as  dead  men  at  the  smell  of  a rose,  — 
that  a stout  soldier  has  been  known  to  turn  and 
run  at  the  sight  or  smell  of  rue,  — that  cassia 
and  even  olive-oil  have  produced  deadly  faint- 
ings  in  certain  individuals, — in  short,  that  al- 
most everything  has  seemed  to  be  a poison  to 
somebody. 

“ Bring  me  that  basket,  Sophy,”  said  the  old 
Doctor,  “ if  you  can  find  it.” 

Sophy  brought  it  to  him,  — for  he  had  not  yet 
entered  Elsie’s  apartment. 

“ These'  purple  leaves  are  from  the  white  ash,” 
he  said.  “ Yon  don’t  know  the  notion  that  peo- 
ple commonly  have  about  that  tree,  Sophy?” 
u I know  they  say  the  Ugly  Things  never  go 
where  the  white  ash  grows,”  Sophy  answered. 
“ Oh,  Doctor  dear,  what  I’m  thinkin’  of  a’n’t 
true,  is  it  ? ” 

The  Doctor  smiled  sadly,  but  did  not  answer. 
He  went  directly  to  Elsie’s  room.  Nobody  would 
have  known  by  his  manner  that  he  saw  any  spe- 
cial change  in  his  patient.  He  spoke  with  her 
as  usual,  made  some  slight  alteration  in  his 
prescriptions,  and  left  the  room  with  a kind, 
cheerful  look.  He  met  her  father  on  the  stairs. 
“ Is  it  as  I thought  ? ” said  Dudley  Venner. 
u There  is  everything  to  fear,”  the  Doctor  said, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


261 


“ and  not  much,  I am  afraid,  to  hope.  Does  not 
her  face  recall  to  yon  one  that  you  remember,  as 
never  before  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  her  father  answered, — “ oh,  yes  ! What 
is  the  meaning  of  this  change  which  has  come  over 
her  features,  and  her  voice,  her  temper,  her  whole 
being?  Tell  me,  oh,  tell  me,  what  is  it?  Can 
it  be  that  the  curse  is  passing  away,  and  my 
daughter  is  to  be  restored  to  me,  — such  as  her 
mother  would  have  had  her,  — such  as  her  moth- 
er was  ? ” 

“ Walk  out  with  me  into  the  garden,”  the 
Doctor  said,  u and  I will  tell  you  all  I know 
and  all  I think  about  this  great  mystery  of 
Elsie’s  life.” 

They  walked  out  together,  and  the  Doctor 
began  : — 

“ She  has  lived  a double  being,  as  it  were,  — 
the  consequence  of  the  blight  which  fell  upon 
her  in  the  dim  period  before  consciousness.  You 
can  see  what  she  might  have  been  but  for  this. 
You  know  that  for  these  eighteen  years  her 
whole  existence  has  taken  its  character  from 
that  influence  which  we  need  not  name.  But 
you  will  remember  that  few  of  the  lower  forms 
of  life  last  as  human  beings  do ; and  thus  it 
might  have  been  hoped  and  trusted  with  some 
show  of  reason,  as  I have  always  suspected  you 
hoped  and  trusted,  perhaps  more  confidently  than 
myself,  that  the  lower  nature  which  had  become 
ingrafted  on  the  higher  would  die  out  and  leave 


262 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  real  woman’s  life  she  inherited  to  outlive  this 
accidental  principle  which  had  so  poisoned  her 
childhood  and  youth.  I believe  it  is  so  dying 
out ; but  I am  afraid,  — yes,  I must  say  it,  I fear 
it  has  involved  the  centres  of  life  in  its  own  de- 
cay. There  is  hardly  any  pulse  at  Elsie’s  wrist ; 
no  stimulants  seem  to  rouse  her;  and  it  looks  as 
if  life  were  slowly  retreating  inwards,  so  that  by- 
and-by  she  will  sleep  as  those  who  lie  down  in 
the  cold  and  never  wake.” 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  her  father  heard  all 
this  not  without  deep  sorrow,  and  such  marks 
of  it  as  his  thoughtful  and  trancuil  nature,  long 
schooled  by  suffering,  claimed  or  permitted,  but 
with  a resignation  itself  the  measure  of  his  past 
trials.  Dear  as  his  daughter  might  become  to 
him,  all  he  dared  to  ask  of  Heaven  was  that  she 
might  be  restored  to  that  truer  self  which  lay 
beneath  her  false  and  adventitious  being.  If  he 
could  once  see  that  the  icy  lustre  in  her  eyes  had 
become  a soft,  calm  light,  — that  her  soul  was  at 
peace  with  all  about  her  and  with  Him  above,  — 
this  crumb  from  the  children’s  table  was  enough 
for  him,  as  it  was  for  the  Syro-Phcenician  woman 
who  asked  that  the  dark  spirit  might  go  out  from 
her  daughter. 

There  was  little  change  the  next  day,  until  all 
at  once  she  said  in  a clear  voice  that  she  should 
like  to  see  her  master  at  the  school,  Mr.  Langdon. 
He  came  accordingly,  and  took  the  place  of 
Helen  at  her  bedside.  It  seemed  as  if  Elsie  had 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


263 


forgotten  the  last  scene  with  him.  Might  it  be 
that  pride  had  come  in,  and  she  had  sent  for  him 
only  to  show  how  superior  she  had  grown  to  the 
weakness  which  had  betrayed  her  into  that  ex- 
traordinary request,  so  contrary  to  the  instincts 
and  usages  of  her  sex  ? Or  was  it  that  the 
singular  change  which  had  come  over  her  had 
involved  her  passionate  fancy  for  him  and  swept 
it  away  with  her  other  habits  of  thought  and 
feeling?  Or  could  it  be  that  she  felt  that  all 
earthly  interests  were  becoming  of  little  account 
to  her,  and  wished  to  place  herself  right  with 
one  to  whom  she  had  displayed  a wayward 
movement  of  her  unbalanced  imagination  ? She 
welcomed  Mr.  Bernard  as  quietly  as  she  had 
received  Helen  Darley.  He  colored  at  the  rec- 
ollection of  that  last  scene,  when  he  came  into 
her  presence ; but  she  smiled  with  perfect  tran- 
quillity. She  did  not  speak  to  him  of  any  ap- 
prehension ; but  he  saw  that  she  looked  upon 
herself  as  doomed.  So  friendly,  yet  so  calm  did 
she  seem  through  all  their  interview,  that  Mr. 
Bernard  could  only  look  back  upon  her  mani- 
festation of  feeling  towards  him  on  their  walk 
from  the  school  as  a vagary  of  a mind  laboring 
under  some  unnatural  excitement,  and  wholly  at 
variance  with  the  true  character  of  Elsie  Yenner 
as  he  saw  her  before  him  in  her  subdued,  yet 
singular  beauty.  He  looked  with  almost  scien- 
tific closeness  of  observation  into  the  diamond 
eyes;  but  that  peculiar  light  which  he  knew  so 


264 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


well  was  not  there.  She  was  the  same  in  one 
sense  as  on  that  first  day  when  he  had  seen  her 
coiling  and  uncoiling  her  golden  chain ; yet  how 
different  in  every  aspect  which  revealed  her  state 
of  mind  and  emotion  ! Something  of  tenderness 
there  was,  perhaps,  in  her  tone  towards  him  ; she 
would  not  have  sent  for  him,  had  she  not  felt 
more  than  an  ordinary  interest  in  him.  But 
through  the  whole  of  his  visit  she  never  lost  her 
gracious  self-possession.  The  Dudley  race  might 
well  be  proud  of  the  last  of  its  daughters,  as  she 
lay  dying,  but  unconqnered  by  the  feeling  of  the 
present  or  the  fear  of  the  future. 

As  for  Mr.  Bernard,  he  found  it  very  hard  to 
look  upon  her,  and  listen  to  her  unmoved.  There 
was  nothing  that  reminded  him  of  the  stormy- 
browed,  almost  savage  girl  he  remembered  in 
her  fierce  loveliness, — nothing  of  all  her  singu- 
larities of  air  and  of  costume.  Nothing?  Yes, 
one  thing.  Weak  and  suffering  as  she  was,  she 
had  never  parted  with  one  particular  ornament, 
such  as  a sick  person  would  naturally,  as  it  might 
be  supposed,  get  rid  of  at  once.  The  golden  cord 
which  she  wore  round  her  neck  at  the  great  party 
was  still  there.  A bracelet  was  lying  by  her  pil- 
low ; she  had  unclasped  it  from  her  wrist. 

Before  Mr.  Bernard  left  her,  she  said, — 

“ I shall  never  see  you  again.  Some  time  or 
other,  perhaps,  you  will  mention  my  name  to  one 
whom  you  love.  Give  her  this  from  your  scholar 
and  friend  Elsie.” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


265 


He  took  the  bracelet,  raised  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  then  turned  his  face  away ; in  that  mo- 
ment he  was  the  weaker  of  the  two. 

“ Good-bye,”  she  said ; “ thank  you  for  com- 
ing.” 

His  voice  died  away  in  his  throat,  as  he  tried 
to  answer  her.  She  followed  him  with  her  eyes 
as  he  passed  from  her  sight  through  the  door, 
and  when  it  closed  after  him  sobbed  tremu- 
lously once  or  twice,  — but  stilled  herself,  and 
met  Helen,  as  she  entered,  with  a composed 
countenance. 

“ I have  had  a very  pleasant  visit  from  Mr. 
Langclon,”  Elsie  said.  “ Sit  by  me,  Helen, 
awhile  without  speaking ; I should  like  to  sleep, 
if  I can,  — and  to  dream.” 


266 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  GOLDEN  CORD  IS  LOOSED. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather,  hearing 
that  his  parishioner’s  daughter,  Elsie,  was  very 
ill,  could  do  nothing  less  than  come  to  the 
mansion-house  and  tender  such  consolations  as 
he  was  master  of.  It  was  rather  remarkable 
that  the  old  Doctor  did  not  exactly  approve  of 
his  visit.  He  thought  that  company  of  every  sort 
might  be  injurious  in  her  weak  state.  He  was 
of  opinion  that  Mr.  Fairweather,  though  greatly 
interested  in  religious  matters,  was  not  the  most 
sympathetic  person  that  could  be  found ; in  fact, 
the  old  Doctor  thought  he  was  too  much  taken 
up  with  his  own  interests  for  eternity  to  give 
himself  quite  so  heartily  to  the  need  of  other 
people  as  some  persons  got  up  on  a rather 
more  generous  scale  (our  good  neighbor  Dr. 
Honeywood,  for  instance)  could  do.  However, 
ail  these  things  had  better  be  arranged  to  suit 
her  wants ; if  she  would  like  to  talk  with  a cler- 
gyman, she  had  a great  deal  better  see  one  as 
often  as  she  liked,  and  run  the  risk  of  the  ex- 
citement, than  have  a hidden  wish  for  such  a 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


267 


visit  and  perhaps  find  herself  too  weak  to  see 
him  by-and-by. 

The  old  Doctor  knew  by  sad  experience  that 
dreadful  mistake  against  which  all  medical  prac- 
titioners should  be  warned.  His  experience  may 
well  be  a guide  for  others.  Do  not  overlook  the 
desire  for  spiritual  advice  and  consolation  which 
patients  sometimes  feel,  and,  with  the  frightful 
mauvaise  lionte  peculiar  to  Protestantism,  alone 
among  all  human  beliefs,  are  ashamed  to  tell. 
As  a part  of  medical  treatment,  it  is  the  phy- 
sician’s business  to  detect  the  hidden  longing 
for  the  food  of  the  soul,  as  much  as  for  any 
form  of  bodily  nourishment.  Especially  in  the 
higher  walks  of  society,  where  this  unutterably 
miserable  false  shame  of  Protestantism  acts  in 
proportion  to  the  general  acuteness  of  the  cul- 
tivated sensibilities,  let  no  unwillingness  to  sug- 
gest the  sick  person’s  real  need  suffer  him  to 
languish  between  his  want  and  his  morbid  sen- 
sitiveness. What  an  infinite  advantage  the  Mus- 
sulmans and  the  Catholics  have  over  many  of 
our  more  exclusively  spiritual  sects  in  the  way 
they  keep  their  religion  always  by  them  and 
never  blush  for  it!  And  besides  this  spiritual 
longing,  we  should  never  forget  that 


“On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies,” 

and  the  minister  of  religion,  in  addition  to  the 
sympathetic  nature  which  we  have  a right-  to 


268 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


demand  in  him,  has  trained  himself  . to  the  art 
of  entering  into  the  feelings  of  others. 

The  reader  must  pardon  this  digression,  which 
introduces  the  visit  of  the  Reverend  Chauncy 
Fairweather  to  Elsie  Venner.  It  was  mentioned 
to  her  that  he  would  like  to  call  and  see  how  she 
was,  and  she  consented,  — not  with  much  appar- 
ent interest,  for  she  had  reasons  of  her  own  for 
not  feeling  any  very  deep  conviction  of  his  sym 
pathy  for  persons  in  sorrow.  But  he  came,  and 
worked  the  conversation  round  to  religion,  and 
confused  her  with  his  hybrid  notions,  half  made 
up  of  what  he  had  been  believing  and  teaching 
all  his  life,  and  half  of  the  new  doctrines  which 
he  had  veneered  upon  the  surface  of  his  old  be- 
lief. He  got  so  far  as  to  make  a prayer  with 
her,  — a cool  well-guarded  prayer,  which  compro- 
mised his  faith  as  little  as  possible,  and  which, 
if  devotion  were  a game  played  against  Provi- 
dence, might  have  been  considered  a cautious 
and  sagacious  move. 

When  he  had  gone,  Elsie  called  Old  Sophy 
to  her. 

“ Sophy,”  she  said,  u don’t  let  them  send  that 
cold-hearted  man  to  me  any  more.  If  your  old 
minister  comes  to  see  you,  I should  like  to  hear 
him  talk.  He  looks  as  if  he  cared  for  every- 
body, and  would  care  for  me.  And,  Sophy,  if 
I should  die  one  of  these  days,  I should  like 
to  have  that  old  minister  come  and  say  what- 
ever is  to  be  said  over  me.  It  would  comfort 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


269 


Dudley  more,  I know,  than  to  have  that  hard 
man  here,  when  you’re  in  trouble,  — for  some 
of  you  will  be  sorry  when  I’m  gone,  — won’t 
you,  Sophy?” 

The  poor  old  black  woman  could  not  stand 
this  question.  The  cold  minister  had  frozen 
Elsie  until  she  felt  as  if  nobody  cared  for  her 
or  would  regret  her,  — and  her  - question  had 
betrayed  this  momentary  feeling. 

“ Don’  talk  so ! don’  talk  so,  darlin’ ! ” she 
cried,  passionately.  “ When  you  go,  Ol’  So- 
phy’ll  go ; ’n’  where  you  go,  OP  Sophy’ll  go  : 
’n’  we’ll  both  go  t’  th’  place  where  th’  Lord  takes 
care  of  all  his  children,  whether  their  faces  are 
white  or  black.  Oh,  darlin’,  darlin’!  if  th’  Lord 
should  let  me  die  fus’,  you  shall  fin’  all  ready 
for  you  when  you  come  after  me.  On’y  don’ 
go  ’n’  leave  poor  OP  Sophy  all  ’lone  in  th’ 
world  ! ” 

Helen  came  in  at  this  moment  and  quieted 
the  old  woman  with  a look.  Such  scenes  were 
just  what  were  most  dangerous,  in  the  state  in 
which  Elsie  was  lying  : but  that  is  one  of  the 
ways  in  which  an  affectionate  friend  sometimes 
unconsciously  wears  out  the  life  which  a hired 
nurse,  thinking  of  nothing  but  her  regular  du- 
ties and  her  wages,  would  have  spared  from  all 
emotional  fatigue. 

The  change  which  had  come  over  Elsie’s  dis- 
position was  itself  the  cause  of  new  excitements. 
How  was  it  possible  that  her  father  could  keep 


270 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


away  from  her,  now  that  she  was  coming  back 
to  the  nature  and  the  very  look  of  her  mother, 
the  bride  of  his  youth  ? How  was  it  possible 
to  refuse  her,  when  she  said  to  Old  Sophy,  that 
she  should  like  to  have  her  minister  come  in 
and  sit  by  her,  even  though  his  presence  might 
perhaps  prove  a new  source  of  excitement  ? 

But  the  Reverend  Doctor  did  come  and  sit 
by  her,  and  spoke  such  soothing  words  to  her, 
words  of  such  peace  and  consolation,  that  from 
that  hour  she  was  tranquil  as  never  before.  All 
true  hearts  are  alike  in  the  hour  of  need  ; the 
Catholic  has  a reserved  fund  of  faith  for  his 
fellow-creature’s  trying  moment,  and  the  Cal- 
vinist reveals  those  springs  of  human  brother- 
hood and  charity  in  his  soul  which  are  only 
covered  over  by  the  iron  tables  inscribed  with 
the  harder  dogmas  of  his  creed.  It  was  enough 
that  the  Reverend  Doctor  knew  all  Elsie’s  his- 
tory. He  could  not  judge  her  by  any  formula, 
like  those  which  have  been  moulded  by  past  ages 
out  of  their  ignorance.  He  did  not  talk  with 
her  as  if  she  were  an  outside  sinner,  worse  than 
himself.  He  found  a bruised  and  languishing 
soul,  and  bound  up  its  wounds.  A blessed  of- 
fice, — one  which  is  confined  to  no  sect  or  creed, 
but  which  good  men  in  all  times,  under  various 
names  and  with  varying  ministries,  to  suit  the 
need  of  each  age,  of  each  race,  of  each  individ- 
ual soul,  have  come  forward  to  discharge  for 
their  suffering  fellow-creatures. 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


271 


After  this  there  was  little  change  in  Elsie,  ex- 
cept that  ner  heart  beat  more  feebly  every  day,  — 
so  that  the  old  Doctor  himself,  with  all  his  experi- 
ence, could  see  nothing  to  account  for  the  gradual 
failing  of  the  powers  of  life,  and  yet  could  find 
no  remedy  which  seemed  to  arrest  its  progress  in 
the  smallest  degree. 

“ Be  very  careful,’’  he  said,  “ that  she  is  not 
allowed  to  make  any  muscular  exertion.  Any 
such  effort,  when  a person  is  so  enfeebled,  may 
stop  the  heart  in  a moment ; and  if  it  stops,  it 
will  never  move  again.” 

Helen  enforced  this  rule  with  the  greatest  care. 
Elsie  was  hardly  allowed  to  move  her  hand  or  to 
speak  above  a whisper.  It  seemed  to  be  mainly 
the  question  now,  whether  this  trembling  flame  of 
life  would  be  blown  out  by  some  light  breath  of 
air,  or  whether  it  could  be  so  nursed  and  sheltered 
by  the  hollow  of  these  watchful  hands  that  it 
would  have  a chance  to  kindle  to  its  natural 
brightness. 

Her  father  came  in  to  sit  with  her  in  the 

evening.  He  had  never  talked  so  freely  with  her 
as  during  the  hour  he  had  passed  at  her  bedside, 
telling  her  little  circumstances  of  her  mother’s 
life,  living  over  with  her  all  that  was  pleasant  in 
the  past,  and  trying  to  encourage  her  with  some 
cheerful  gleams  of  hope  for  the  future.  A faint 
smile  played  over  her  face,  but  she  did  not  an- 
swer his  encouraging  suggestions.  The  hour 


272 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


came  for  him  to  leave  her  with  those  who 
watched  by  her. 

“ Good-night,  my  dear  child,”  he  said,  and, 
stooping  down,  kissed  her  cheek. 

Elsie  rose  by  a sudden  effort,  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  kissed  him,  and  said,  “ Good-night, 
my  dear  father  ! ” 

The  suddenness  of  her  movement  had  taken 
him  by  surprise,  or  he  would  have  checked  so 
dangerous  an  effort.  It  was  too  late  now.  Her 
arms  slid  away  from  him  like  lifeless  weights, 
— her  head  fell  back  upon  her  pillow,  — a long 
sigh  breathed  through  her  lips. 

“ She  is  faint,”  said  Helen,  doubtfully  ; “ bring 
me  the  hartshorn,  Sophy.” 

The  old  woman  had  started  from  her  place,  and 
was  now  leaning  over  her,  looking  in  her  face,  and 
listening  for  the  sound  of  her  breathing. 

“ She’s  dead  ! Elsie’s  dead  ! My  darlin’  ’s 
dead ! ” she  cried  aloud,  filling  the  room  with  her 
utterance  of  anguish. 

Dudley  Venner  drew  her  away  and  silenced 
her  with  a voice  of  authority,  while  Helen  and 
an  assistant  plied  their  restoratives.  It  was  all 
in  vain. 

The  solemn  tidings  passed  from  the  chamber 
of  death  through  the  family.  The  daughter,  the 
hope  of  that  old  and  honored  house,  was  dead  in 
the  freshness  of  her  youth,  and  the  home  of  its 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


273 


solitary  representative  was  hereafter  doubly  des- 
olate. 

A messenger  rode  hastily  out  of  the  avenue. 
A little  after  this  the  people  of  the  village  and 
the  outlying  farm-houses  were  startled  by  the 
sound  of  a bell. 

One,  — two,  — three,  — four,  — 

They  stopped  in  every  house,  as  far  as  the 

wavering  vibrations  reached,  and  listened 

- five,  — six,  — seven,  — 

It  was  not  the  little  child  which  had  been  lying 
so  long  at  the  point  of  death  ; that  could  not  be 

more  than  three  or  four  years  old 

eight,  — nine,  — ten,  — and  so  on  to  fif- 
teen, — sixteen,  — < seventeen,  — eighteen  

The  pulsations  seemed  to  keep  on,  — but  it 
was  the  brain,  and  not  the  bell,  that  was  throb- 
bing now. 

u Elsie’s  dead  ! ” was  the  exclamation  at  a 
hundred  firesides. 

“ Eighteen  year  old,”  said  old  Widow  Peake, 
rising  from  her  chair.  “ Eighteen  year  ago  I 
laid  two  gold  eagles  on  her  mother’s  eyes,  — he 
wouldn’t  have  anything  but  gold  touch  her  eye- 
lids, — and  now  Elsie’s  to  be  straightened,  — 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  her  poor  sinful  soul ! ” 
Dudley  Yenner  prayed  that  night  that  he  might 
be  forgiven,  if  he  had  failed  in  any  act  of  duty  or 
kindness  to  this  unfortunate  child  of  his,  now 
freed  from  all  the  woes  born  with  her  and  so  long 
18 


VOL.  II. 


274 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


poisoning  her  soul.  He  thanked  God  for  the 
brief  interval  of  peace  which  had  been  granted 
her,  for  the  sweet  communion  they  had  enjoyed 
in  these  last  days,  and  for  the  hope  of  meet- 
ing her  with  that  other  lost  friend  in  a better 
world. 

Helen  mingled  a few  broken  thanks  and  peti- 
tions with  her  tears  : thanks  that  she  had  been 
permitted  to  share  the  last  days  and  hours  of  this 
poor  sister  in  sorrow ; petitions  that  the  grief  of 
bereavement  might  be  lightened  to  the  lonely 
parent  and  the  faithful  old  servant. 

Old  Sophy  said  almost  nothing,  but  sat  day 
and  night  by  her  dead  darling.  But  sometimes 
her  anguish  would  find  an  outlet  in  strange 
sounds,  something  between  a cry  and  a musical 
note, — such  as  none  had  ever  heard  her  utter  be- 
fore. These  were  old  remembrances  surging  up 
from  her  childish  days,  — coming  through  her 
mother  from  the  cannibal  chief,  her  grandfather, 
— death-wails,  such  as  they  sing  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Western  Africa,  when  they  see  the  fires 
on  distant  hill-sides  and  know  that  their  own 
wives  and  children  are  undergoing  the  fate  of 
captives. 

The  time  came  when  Elsie  was  to  be  laid  by 
her  mother  in  the  small  square  marked  by  the 
white  stone. 

It  was  not  unwillingly  that  the  Reverend 
Chauncy  Fairweather  had  relinquished  the  duty 
of  conducting  the  service  to  the  Reverend  Doc- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


275 


tor  Honeywood,  in  accordance  with  Elsie’s  re- 
quest. He  could  not,  by  any  reasoning,  reconcile 
his  present  way  of  thinking  with  a hope  for  the 
future  of  his  unfortunate  parishioner.  Any  good 
old  Roman  Catholic  priest,  born  and  bred  to  his 
faith  and  his  business,  would  have  found  a loop- 
hole into  some  kind  of  heaven  for  her,  by  virtue 
of  his  doctrine  of  “ invincible  ignorance,”  or  other 
special  proviso  ; but  a recent  convert  cannot  enter 
into  the  working  conditions  of  his  new  creed. 
Beliefs  must  be  lived  in  for  a good  while,  before 
they  accommodate  themselves  to  the  soul’s  wants, 
and  wear  loose  enough  to  be  comfortable. 

The  Reverend  Doctor  had  no  such  scruples. 
Like  thousands  of  those  who  are  classed  nomi- 
nally with  the  despairing  believers,  he  had  never 
prayed  over  a departed  brother  or  sister  without 
feeling  and  expressing  a guarded  hope  that  there 
was  mercy  in  store  for  the  poor  sinner,  whom 
parents,  wives,  children,  brothers  and  sisters  could 
not  bear  to  give  up  to  utter  ruin  without  a word, 
— and  would  not,  as  he  knew  full  well,  in  virtue 
of  that  human  love  and  sympathy  which  nothing 
can  ever  extinguish.  And  in  this  poor  Elsie’s 
history  he  could  read  nothing  which  the  tears  of 
the  recording  angel  might  not  wash  away.  As 
the  good  physician  of  the  place  knew  the  diseases 
that  assailed  the  bodies  of  men  and  women,  so 
he  had  learned  the  mysteries  of  the  sickness  of 
the  soul. 

So  many  wished  to  look  upon  Elsie’s  face  once 


276 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


more,  that  her  father  would  not  deny  them  ; nay, 
he  was  pleased  that  those  who  remembered  her 
living  should  see  her  in  the  still  beauty  of  death. 
Helen  and  those  with  her  arrayed  her  for  this 
fare  well- view.  All  was  ready  for  the  sad  or  cu- 
rious eyes  which  were  to  look  upon  her.  There 
was  no  painful  change  to  be  concealed  by  any 
artifice.  Even  her  round  neck  was  left  uncov- 
ered, that  she  might  be  more  like  one  who  slept. 
Only  the  golden  cord  was  left  in  its  place  : some 
searching  eye  might  detect  a trace  of  that  birth- 
mark which  it  was  whispered  she  had  always 
worn  a necklace  to  conceal. 

At  the  last  moment,  when  all  the  preparations 
were  completed,  Old  Sophy  stooped  over  her, 
and,  with  trembling  hand,  loosed  the  golden  cord. 
She  looked  intently,  for  some  little  space : there 
was  no  shade  nor  blemish  where  the  ring  of  gold 
had  encircled  her  throat.  She  took  it  gently 
away  and  laid  it  in  the  casket  which  held  her 
ornaments. 

“ The  Lord  be  praised ! ” the  old  woman  cried, 
aloud.  “ He  has  taken  away  the  mark  that  was 
on  her;  she’s  fit  to  meet  his  holy  angels  now ! ” 

So  Elsie  lay  for  hours  in  the  great  room,  in 
a kind  of  state,  with  flowers  all  about  her, — 
her  black  hair  braided  as  in  life,  — her  brows 
smooth,  as  if  they  had  never  known  the  scowl 
of  passion,  — and  on  her  lips  the  faint  smile 
with  which  she  had  uttered  her  last  ‘i  Good- 
night.” The  young  girls  from  the  school  looked 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


277 


at  her,  one  *after  another,  and  passed  on,  sob- 
bing, carrying  in  their  hearts  the  picture  that 
would  be  with  them  all  their  days.  The  great 
people  of  the  place  were  all  there  with  their  si- 
lent sympathy.  The  lesser  kind  of  gentry,  and 
many  of  .the  plainer  folk  of  the  village,  half- 
pleased  to  find  themselves  passing  beneath  the 
stately  portico  of  the  ancient  mansion-house, 
crowded  in,  until  the  ample  rooms  were  over- 
flowing. All  the  friends  whose  acquaintance 
we  have  made  were  there,  and  many  from  re- 
moter villages  and  towns. 

There  was  a deep  silence  at  last.  The  hour 
had  come  for  the  parting  words  to  be  spoken 
over  the  dead.  The  good  old  minister’s  voice 
rose  out  of  the  stillness,  subdued  and  tremulous 
at  first,  but  growing  firmer  and  clearer  as  he 
went  on,  until  it  reached  the  ears  of  the  visitors 
who  were  in  the  far,  desolate  chambers,  looking 
at  the  pictured  hangings  and  the  old  dusty  por- 
traits. He  did  not  tell  her  story  in  his  prayer. 
He  only  spoke  of  our  dear  departed  sister  as 
one  of  many  whom  Providence  in  its  wisdom 
has  seen  fit  to  bring  under  bondage  from  their 
cradles.  It  was  not  for  us  to  judge  them  by 
any  standard  of  our  own.  He  who  made  the 
heart  alone  knew  the  infirmities  it  inherited  or 
acquired.  For  all  that  our  dear  sister  had  pre- 
sented that  was  interesting  and  attractive  in  her 
character  we  were  to  be  grateful;  for  whatever 
was  dark  or  inexplicable  we  must  trust  that  the 


278 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


deep  shadow  which  rested  on  the  twilight  dawn 
of  her  being  might  render  a reason  before  the 
bar  of  Omniscience ; for  the  grace  which  had 
lightened  her  last  days  we  should  pour  out  our 
hearts  in  thankful  acknowledgment.  From  the 
life  and  the  death  of  this  our  dear  sister  we 
should  learn  a lesson  of  patience  "with  our  fel- 
ow-creatures  in  their  inborn  peculiarities,  of 
charity  in  judging  what  seem  to  us  wilful  faults 
of  character,  of  hope  and  trust,  that,  by  sickness 
or  affliction,  or  such  inevitable  discipline  as  life 
must  always  bring  with  it,  if  by  no  gentler 
means,  the  soul  which  had  been  left  by  Nature 
to  wander  into  the  path  of  error  and  of  suffer- 
ing might  be  reclaimed  and  restored  to  its  true 
aim,  and  so  led  on  by  divine  grace  to  its  eternal 
welfare.  He  closed  his  prayer  by  commending 
each  member  of  the  afflicted  family  to  the  di- 
vine blessing. 

Then  all  at  once  rose  the  clear  sound  of  the 
girls’  voices,  in  the  sweet,  sad  melody  of  a fu- 
neral hymn,  — one  of  those  which  Elsie  had 
marked,  as  if  prophetically,  among  her  own  fa- 
vorites. 

And  so  they  laid  her  in  the  earth,  and  show- 
ered down  flowers  upon  her,  and  filled  her  grave, 
and  covered  it  with  green  sods.  By  the  side  of 
it  was  another  oblong  ridge,  with  a white  stone 
standing  at  its  head.  Mr.  Bernard  looked  upon 
it,  as  he  came  close  to  the  place  where  Elsie 
was  laid,  and  read  the  inscription, — 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


279 


CATALINA 

WIFE  TO  DUDLEY  VENNER 

DIED 

OCTOBER  13th  1840 

AGED  XX  YEARS. 

A gentle  rain  fell  on  the  turf  after  it  was 
laid.  This  was  the  beginning  of  a long  and 
dreary  autumnal  storm,  a deferred  “ equinoctial,” 
as  many  considered  it.  The  mountain  streams 
were  all  swollen  and  turbulent,  and  the  steep 
declivities  were  furrowed  in  every  direction  by 
new  channels.  It  made  the  house  seem  doubly 
desolate  to  hear  the  wind  howling  and  the  rain 
beating  upon  the  roofs.  The  poor  relation  who 
was  staying  at  the  house  would  insist,  on  Hel- 
en’s remaining  a few  days:  Old  Sophy  was  in 
such  a condition,  that  it  kept  her  in  continual 
anxiety,  and  there  were  many  cares  which  Helen 
could  take  off  from  her. 

The  old  black  woman’s  life  was  buried  in  her 
darling’s  grave.  She  did  nothing  but  moan  and 
lament  for  her.  At  night  she  was  restless,  and 
would  get  up  and  wander  to  Elsie’s  apartment 
and  look  for  her  and  call  her  by  name.  At 
other  times  she  would  lie  awake  and  listen  to 
the  wind  and  the  rain,  — sometimes  with  such 
a wild  look  upon  her  face,  and  with  such  sud- 
den starts  and  exclamations,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  she  heard  spirit- voices  and  were  answering  the 


280 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


whispers  of  unseen  visitants.  With  all  this  were 
mingled  hints  of  her  old  superstition,  — forebod- 
ings of  something  fearful  about  to  happen, — 
perhaps  the  great  final  catastrophe  of  all  things, 
according  to  the  prediction  current  in  the  kitch- 
ens of  Rockland. 

“ Hark ! ” Old  Sophy  would  say,  — “ don’  you 
hear  th’  crackin’  ’n’  th’  snappin’  up  in  Th’  Moun- 
tain, ’n’  th’  rollin’  o’  th’  big  stones?  The’  ’s 
somethin’  stirrin’  among  th’  rocks;  I hear  th’ 
soun’  of  it  in  th’  night,  when  th’  wind  has 
stopped  blowin’.  Oh,  stay  by  me  a little 
while,  Miss  Darlin’ ! stay  by  me!  for  it’s  th’ 
Las’  Day,  maybe,  that’s  close  on  us,  ’n’  I feel 
as  if  I couldn’  meet  th’  Lord  all  alone!” 

It  was  curious,  — but  Helen  did  certainly  rec- 
ognize sounds,  during  the  lull  of  the  storm,  which 
were  not  of  falling  rain  or  running  streams, — 
short  snapping  sounds,  as  of  tense  cords  break- 
ing,— long  uneven  sounds,  as  of  masses  roll- 
ing down  steep  declivities.  But  the4  morning 
came  as  usual;  and  as  the  others  said  nothing 
of  these  singular  noises,  Helen  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  speak  of  them.  All  day  long  she 
and  the  humble  relative  of  Elsie’s  mother,  who 
had  appeared  as  poor  relations  are  wont  to  in 
the  great  crises  of  life,  were  busy  in  arranging 
the  disordered  house,  and  looking  over  the  vari- 
ous objects  which  Elsie’s  singular  tastes  had 
brought  together,  to  dispose  of  them  as  her 
father  might  direct.  They  all  met  together  at 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


281 


the  usual  hour  for  tea.  One  of  the  servants 
came  in,  looking  very  blank,  and  said  to  the 
poor  relation, — 

u The  well  is  gone  dry ; we  have  nothing  but 
rain-water.” 

Dudley  Vernier’s  countenance  changed ; he 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  went  to  assure  himself 
of  the  fact,  and,  if  he  could,  of  the  reason  of 
it.  For  a well  to  dry  up  during  such  a rain 
storm  was  ex traord inary,  — it  was  ominous. 

He  came  back,  looking  very  anxious. 

“ Did  any  of  you  notice  any  remarkable  sounds 
last  night,”  he  said,  — u or  this  morning?  Hark! 
do  you  hear  anything  now?” 

They  listened  in  perfect  silence  for  a few 
moments.  Then  there  came  a short  cracking 
sound,  and  two  or  three  snaps,  as  of  parting 
cords. 

Dudley  Venner  called  all  his  household  to- 
gether. 

“ We  are  in  danger  here,  as  I think,  to- 
night,” he  said,  — u not  very  great  danger,  per- 
haps, but  it  is  a risk  I do  not  wish  you  to 
run.  These  heavy  rains  have  loosed  some  of 
the  rocks  above,  and  they  may  come  down  and 
endanger  the  house.  Harness  the  horses,  El- 
bridge,  and  take  all  the  family  away.  Miss 
Darley  will  go  to  the  Institute ; the  others  will 
pass  the  night  at  the  Mountain  House.  I shall 
stay  here,  myself:  it  is  not  at  all  likely  that 
anything  will  come  of  these  warnings  ; but  if 


282 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


there  should,  I choose  to  be  here  and  take  my 
chance.” 

It  needs  little,  generally,  to  frighten  servants, 
and  they  were  all  ready  enough  to  go.  The 
poor  relation  was  one  of  the  timid  sort,  and 
was  terribly  uneasy  to  be  got  out  of  the  house. 
This  left  no  alternative,  of  course,  for  Helen, 
but  to  go  also.  They  all  urged  upon  Dudley 
Yenner  to  go  with  them  : if  there  was  danger, 
why  should  he  remain  to  risk  it,  when  he  sent 
away  the  others  ? 

Old  Sophy  said  nothing  until  the  time  came 
for  her  to  go  with  the  second  of  Elbridge’s  car- 
riage-loads. 

“Come,  Sophy,”  said  Dudley  Venner,  “get 
your  things  and  go.  They  will  take  good  care 
of  you  at  the  Mountain  House ; and  when  we 
have  made  sure  that  there  is  no  real  danger, 
you  shall  come  back  at  once.” 

“ No,  Massa ! ” Sophy  answered.  “ I’ve  seen 
Elsie  into  th’  ground,  ’n’  I a’n’t  goin’  away  to 
come  back  ’n’  fin’  Massa  Venner  buried  under 
th’  rocks.  My  darlin’  ’s  gone  ; ’n’  now,  if  Massa 
goes,  ’n’  th’  ol’  place  goes,  it’s  time  for  Ol’  Sophy 
to  go,  too.  No,  Massa  Yenner,  we’ll  both  stay 
in  th’  ol’  mansion  ’n’  wait  for  th’  Lord ! ” 

Nothing  could  change  the  old  woman’s  deter- 
mination ; and  her  master,  who  only  feared,  but 
did  not  really  expect  the  long-deferred  catastro- 
phe, was  obliged  to  consent  to  her  staying.  The 
sudden  drying  of  the  well  at  such  a time  was  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


283 


most  alarming  sign  ; for  he  remembered  that  the 
same  thing  had  been  observed  just  before  great 
mountain-slides.  This  long  rain,  too,  was  just 
the  kind  of  cause  which  was  likely  to  loosen 
the  strata  of  rock  piled  up  in  the  ledges ; if  the 
dreaded  event  should  ever  come  to  pass,  it  would 
be  at  such  a time. 

He  paced  his  chamber  uneasily  until  long  past 
midnight.  If  the  morning  came  without  accident, 
he  meant  to  have  a careful  examination  made  of 
all  the  rents  and  fissures  above,  of  their  direction 
and  extent,  and  especially  whether,  in  case  of  a 
mountain-slide,  the  huge  masses  would  be  like  to 
reach  so  far  to  the  east  and  so  low  down  the 
declivity  as  the  mansion. 

At  two  o’clock  in  the  morning  he  was  dozing 
in  his  chair.  Old  Sophy  had  lain  down  on  her 
bed,  and  was  muttering  in  troubled  dreams. 

All  at  once  a loud  crash  seemed  to  rend  the 
very  heavens  above  them : a crack  as  of  the 
thunder  that  follows  close  upon  the  bolt,  — a 
rending  and  crushing  as  of  a forest  snapped 
through  all  its  stems,  torn,  twisted,  splintered, 
dragged  with  all  its  ragged  boughs  into  one 
chaotic  ruin.  The  ground  trembled  under  them 
as  in  an  earthquake ; the  old  mansion  shuddered 
so  that  all  its  windows  chattered  in  their  case- 
ments ; the  great  chimney  shook  off  its  heavy 
cap-stones,  which  came  down  on  the  roof  with 
resounding  concussions;  and  the  echoes  of  The 
Mountain  roared  and  bellowed  in  long  reduplica- 


284 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


tion,  as  if  its  whole  foundations  were  rent,  and 
this  were  the  terrible  voice  of  its  dissolution. 

Dudley  Venner  rose  from  his  chair,  folded  his 
arms,  and  awaited  his  fate.  There  was  no  know- 
ing where  to  look  for  safety ; and  he  remembered 
too  well  the  story  of  the  family  that  was  lost  by 
rushing  out  of  the  house,  and  so  hurrying  into 
L.  the  very  jaws  of  death. 

He  had  stood  thus  but  for  a moment,  when 
he  heard  the  voice  of  Old  Sophy  in  a wild  cry  of 
terror : — 

“ It’s  th’  Las’  Day ! It’s  th’  Las’  Day ! The 
Lord  is  comifi’  to  take  us  all ! ” 

“ Sophy!”  he  called;  but  she  did  not  hear  him 
or  heed  him,  and  rushed  out  of  the  house. 

The  worst  danger  was  over.  If  they  were  to 
be  destroyed,  it  would  necessarily  be  in  a few 
seconds  from  the  first  thrill  of  the  terrible  con- 
vulsion. He  waited  in  awful  suspense,  but  calm. 
Not  more  than  one  or  two  minutes  could  have 
passed  before  the  frightful  tumult  and  all  its 
sounding  echoes  had  ceased.  He  called  Old  So- 
phy ; but  she  did  not  answer.  He  went  to  the 
western  window  and  looked  forth  into  the  dark- 
ness. He  could  not  distinguish  the  outlines  of 
the  landscape,  but  the  white  stone  was  clearly 
visible,  and  by  its  side  the  new-made  mound. 
Nay,  what  was  that  which  obscured  its  outline, 
in  shape  like  a human  figure  ? He  flung  open 
the  window  and  sprang  through.  It  was  all  that 
there  was  left  of  poor  Old  Sophy,  stretched  out, 
lifeless,  upon  her  darling’s  grave. 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


285 


He  had  scarcely  composed  her  limbs  and  drawn 
the  sheet  over  her,  when  the  neighbors  began  to 
arrive  from  all  directions.  Each  was  expecting 
to  hear  of  houses  overwhelmed  and  families  de- 
stroyed ; but  each  came  with  the  story  that  his 
own  household  was  safe.  It  was  not  until  the 
morning  dawned  that  the  true  nature  and  extent 
of  the  sudden  movement  was  ascertained.  A 
great  seam  had  opened  above  the  long  cliff,  and 
the  terrible  Rattlesnake  Ledge,  with  all  its  en- 
venomed reptiles,  its  dark  fissures  and  black  cav- 
erns, was  buried  forever  beneath  a mighty  in- 
cumbent mass  of  ruin. 


286 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MR.  SILAS  PECKHAM  RENDERS  HIS  ACCOUNT. 

The  morning  rose  clear  and  bright.  The  long 
storm  was  over,  and  the  calm  autumnal  sunshine 
was  now  to  return,  with  all  its  infinite  repose  and 
sweetness.  With  the  earliest  dawn  exploring 
parties  were  out  in  every  direction  along  the 
southern  slope  of  The  Mountain,  tracing  the 
ravages  of  the  great  'slide  and  the  track  it  had 
followed.  It  proved  to  be  not  so  much  a slide 
as  the  breaking  off  and  falling  of  a vast  line  of 
cliff,  including  the  dreaded  Ledge.  It  had  folded 
over  like  the  leaves  of  a half-opened  book  when 
they  close,  crushing  the  trees  below,  piling  its 
ruins  in  a glacis  at  the  foot  of  what  had  been 
the  overhanging  wall  of  the  cliff,  and  filling  up 
that  deep  cavity  above  the  mansion-house  which 
bore  the  ill-omened  name  of  Dead  Man’s  Hollow. 
This  it  was  which  had  saved  the  Dudley  man- 
sion. The  falling  masses,  or  huge  fragments 
breaking  off  from  them,  would  have  swept  the 
house  and  all  around  it  to  destruction  but  for 
this  deep  shelving  dell,  into  which  the  stream 
of  ruin  was  happily  directed.  It  was,  indeed, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


287 


one  of  Nature’s  conservative  revolutions ; for  the 
fallen  masses  made  a kind  of  shelf,  which  in- 
terposed a level  break  between  the  inclined  planes 
above  and  below  it,  so  that  the  nightmare-fancies 
of  the  dwellers  in  the  Dudley  mansion,  and  in 
many  other  residences  under  the  shadow  of  The 
Mountain,  need  not  keep  them  lying  awake  here- 
after to  listen  for  the  snapping  of  roots  and  the 
splitting  of  the  rock3  above  them. 

Twenty-four  hours  after  the  falling  of  the  cliff, 
it  seemed  as  if  it  had  happened  ages  ago.  The 
new  fact  had  fitted  itself  in  with  all  the  old  pre- 
dictions, forebodings,  fears,  and  acquired  the  soli- 
darity belonging  to  all  events  which  have  slipped 
out  of  the  finders  of  Time  and  dissolved  in  the 
antecedent  eternity. 

Old  Sophy  was  lying  dead  in  the  Dudley  man- 
sion. If  there  were  tears  shed  for  her,  they  could 
not  be  bitter  ones ; for  she  had  lived  out  her  full 
measure  of  days,  and  gone — who  could  help 
fondly  believing  it  ? — to  rejoin  her  beloved  mis- 
tress. They  made  a place  for  her  at  the  foot  of 
the  two  mounds.  It  was  thus  she  would  have 
chosen  to  sleep,  and  not  to  have  wronged  her 
humble  devotion  in  life  by  asking  to  lie  at  the 
side  of  those  whom  she  had  served  so  long  and 
faithfully.  There  were  very  few  present  at  the 
simple  ceremony.  Helen  Darley  was  one  of 
these  few.  The  old  black  woman  had  been  her 
companion  in  all  the  kind  offices  of  which  she 
had  been  the  ministering  angel  to  Elsie. 


288 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


After  it  was  all  over,  Helen  was  leaving  with 
the  rest,  when  Dudley  Yenner  begged  her  to 
stay  a little,  and  he  would  send  her  back : it  was 
a long  walk ; besides,  he  wished  to  say*  some 
things  to  her,  which  he  had  not  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking.  Of  course  Helen  could  not 
refuse  him  ; there  must  be  many  thoughts  com- 
ing into  his  mind  which  he  would  wish  to  share 
with  her  who  had  known  his  daughter  so  long 
and  been  with  her  in  her  last  days. 

She  returned  into  the  great  parlor  with  the 
wrought  cornices  and  the  medallion-portraits  on 
the  ceiling. 

“ I am  now  alone  in  the  world,”  Dudley  Yen- 
ner said. 

Helen  must  have  known  that  before  he  spoke. 
But  the  tone  in  which  he  said  it  had  so  much 
meaning,  that  she  could  not  find  a word  to  an- 
swer him  with.  They  sat  in*  silence,  which  the 
old  tall  clock  counted  out  in  long  seconds  ; but 
it  was  silence  which  meant  more  than  any 
words  they  had  ever  spoken. 

“ Alone  in  the  world.  Helen,  the  freshness  of 
my  life  is  gone,  and  there  is  little  left  of  the  few 
graces  which  in  my  younger  days  might  have 
fitted  me  to  win  the  love  of  women.  Listen  to 
me,  — kindly,  if  you  can ; forgive  me,  at  least. 
Half  my  life  has  been  passed  in  constant  fear 
and  anguish,  without  any  near  friend  to  share 
my  trials.  My  task  is  done  now  ; my  fears  have 
ceased  to  prey  upon  me  ; the  sharpness  of  early 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


289 


sorrows  has  yielded  something  of  its  edge  to 
time.  You  have  bound  me  to  you  by  gratitude 
in  the  tender  care  you  have  taken  of  my  poor 
child.  More  than  this.  I must  tell  you  all  now, 
out  of  the  depth  of  this  trouble  through  which 
I am  passing.  I have  loved  you  from  the  mo- 
ment we  first  met;  and  if  my  life  has  anything 
left  worth  accepting,  it  is  yours.  Will  you  take 
the  offered  gift  ? ” 

Helen  looked  in  his  face,  surprised,  bewildered. 

* u This  is  not  for  me,  — not  for  me/’  she  said. 
“J  am  but  a poor  faded  flower,  not  worth  the 
gathering  of  such  a one  as  you.  No,  no, — I 
have  been  bred  to  humble  toil  all  my  days,  and 
I could  not  be  to  you  what  you  ought  to  ask.  I 
am  accustomed  to  a kind  of  loneliness  and  self- 
dependence.  I have  seen  nothing,  almost,  of  the 
world,  such  as  you  were  born  to  move  in.  Leave 
me  to  my  obscure  place  and  duties ; I shall  at 
least  have  peace;  — and  you — you  will  surely 
find  in  due  time  some  one  better  fitted  by  Nature 
and  training  to  make  you  happy.” 

“ No,  Miss  Darley!”  Dudley  Venner  said,  al- 
most sternly.  “ You  must  not  speak  to  a man, 
who  has  lived  through  my  experiences,  of  looking 
about  for  a new  choice  after  his  heart  has  once 
chosen.  Say  that  you  can  never  love  me ; say 
that  I have  lived  too  long  to  share  your  young 
life ; say  that  sorrow  has  left  nothing  in  me  for 
Love  to  find  his  pleasure  in ; but  do  not  mock 
me  with  the  hope  of  a new  affection  for  some  un- 

VOL.  II.  19 


290 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


known  object.  The  first  look  of  yours  brought 
me  to  your  side.  The  first  tone  of  your  voice 
sunk  into  my  heart.  From  this  moment  my  life 
must  wither  out  or  bloom  anew.  My  home  is 
desolate.  Come  under  my  roof  and  make  it 
bright  once  more,  — share  my  life  with  me,  — or 
I shall  give  the  halls  of  the  old  mansion  to  the 
bats  and  the  owls,  and  wander  forth  alone  with- 
out a hope  or  a friend  ! ” 

To  find  herself  with  a man’s  future  at  the  dis- 
posal of  a single  word  of  hers  ! — a man  like  this, 
too,  with  a fascination  for  her  against  which  she 
had  tried  to  shut  her  heart,  feeling  that  he  lived 
in  another  sphere  than  hers,  working  as  she  was 
for  her  bread,  a poor  operative  in  the  factory  of 
a hard  master  and  jealous  overseer,  the  salaried 
drudge  of  Mr.  Silas  Peckham ! Why,  she  had 
thought  he  was  grateful  to  her  as  a friend  of  his 
daughter ; she  had  even  pleased  herself  with  the 
feeling  that  he  liked  her,  in  her  humble  place,  as 
a woman  of  some  cultivation  and  many  sympa- 
thetic points  of  relation  with  himself ; but  that  he 
loved  her,  — that  this  deep,  fine  nature,  in  a man 
so  far  removed  from  her  in  outward  circum- 
stance, should  have  found  its  counterpart  in  one 
whom  life  had  treated  so  coldly  as  herself,  — 
that  Dudley  Venner  should  stake  his  happiness 
on  a breath  of  hers,  — poor  Helen  Darley’s,  — it 
was  all  a surprise,  a confusion,  a kind  of  fear 
not  wholly  fearful.  Ah,  me  ! women  know  what 
it  is,  — that  mist  over  the  eyes,  that  trembling  in 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


291 


the  limbs,  that  faltering  of  the  voice,  that  sweet, 
shame-faced,  unspoken  confession  of  weakness 
which  does  not  wish  to  be  strong,  that  sudden 
overflow  in  the  soul  where  thoughts  loose  their 
hold  on  each  other  and  swim  single  and  helpless 
in  the  flood  of  emotion,  — women  know  what 
it  is ! 

No  doubt  she  was  a little  frightened  and  a 
good  deal  bewildered,  and  that  her  sympathies 
were  warmly  excited  for  a friend  to' whom  she 
had  been  brought  so  near,  and  whose  loneliness 
she  saw  and  pitied.  She  lost  that  calm  self-pos- 
session she  had  hoped  to  maintain. 

“ If  I thought  that  I could  make  you  happy,  — 
if  I should  speak  from  my  heart,  and  not  my  rea- 
son, — I am  but  a weak  woman,  — yet  if  I can 
be  to  you What  can  I say  ? ” 

What  more  could  this  poor,  dear  Helen  say  ? 

“ Elbridge,  harness  the  horses  and  take  Miss 
Darley  back  to  the  school.” 

What  conversation  had  taken  place  since  Hel- 
en’s rhetorical  failure  is  not  recorded  in  the  min- 
utes from  which  this  narrative  is  constructed.  But 
when  the  man  who  had  been  summoned  had  gone 
to  get  the  carriage  ready,  Helen  resumed  some- 
thing she  had  been  speaking  of. 

“ Not  for  the  world ! Everything  must  go  on 
just  as  it  has  gone  on,  for  the  present.  There 
are  proprieties  to  be  consulted.  I cannot  be  hard 
with  you,  that  out  of  your  very  affliction  has 


292 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


sprung  this  — this  — well  — you  must  name  it 
for  me,  — but  the  world  will  never  listen  to  ex- 
planations. I am  to  be  Helen  Darley,  lady  as- 
sistant in  Mr.  Silas  Peckham’s  school,  as  long  as 
I see  fit  to  hold  my  office.  And  I mean  to  at- 
tend to  my  scholars  just  as  before  ; so  that  I shall 
have  very  little  time  for  visiting  or  seeing  com- 
pany. I believe,  though,  you  are  one  of  the 
Trustees  and  a Member  of  the  Examining  Com- 
mittee ; so  that,  if  you  should  happen  to  visit  the 
school,  I shall  try  to  be  civil  to  you.” 

Every  lady  sees,  of  course,  that  Helen  was 
quite  right ; but  perhaps  here  and  there  one  will 
think  that  Dudley  Venner  was  all  wrong,  — that 
he  was  too  hasty,  — that  he  should  have  been 
too  full  of  his  recent  grief  for  such  a confession 
as  he  has  just  made,  and  the  passion  from  which 
it  sprung.  Perhaps  they  do  not  understand  the 
sudden  recoil  of  a strong  nature  long  compressed. 
Perhaps  they  have  not  studied  the  mystery  of 
allotropism  in  the  emotions  of  the  human  heart. 
Go  to  the  nearest  chemist  and  ask  him  to  show 
you  some  of  the  dark-red  phosphorus  which  will 
not  burn  without  fierce  heating,  but  at  500°, 
Fahrenheit,  changes  back  again  to  the  inflam- 
mable substance  we  know  so  well.  Grief  seems 
more  like  ashes  than  like  fire ; but  as  grief  has 
been  love  once,  so  it  may  become  love  again. 
This  ip  emotional  allotropism. 

Helen  rode  back  to  the  Institute  and  inquired 
for  Mr.  Peckham.  She  had  not  seen  him  during 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


293 


the  brief  interval  between  her  departure  from  the 
mansion-house  and  her  return  to  Old  Sophy’s 
funeral.  There  were  various  questions  about  the 
school  she  wished  to  ask. 

“ Oh,  how’s  your  haalth,  Miss  Darley  ? ” Silas 
began.  “ We’ve  missed  you  consid’able.  Glad 
to  see  you  back  at  the  post  of  dooty.  Hope  the 
Squire  treated  you  hahnsomely,  — liberal  pecoon- 
iary  compensation,  — hey?  A’n’t  much  of  a 
loser,  I guess,  by  acceptin’  his  propositions  ? ” 

Helen  blushed  at  this  last  question,  as  if  Silas 
had  meant  something  by  it  beyond  asking  what 
money  she  had  received  ; but  his  own  double- 
meaning  expression  and  her  blush  were  too  nice 
points  for  him  to  have  taken  cognizance  of.  He 
was  engaged  in  a mental  calculation  as  to  the 
amount  of  the  deduction  he  should  make  under 
the  head  of  “ demage  to  the  institootion,”  — this 
depending  somewhat  on  that  of  the  44  pecooniary 
compensation  ” she  might  have  received  for  her 
services  as  the  friend  of  Elsie  Venner. 

So  Helen  slid  back  at  once  into  her  routine, 
the  same  faithful,  patient  creature  she  had  al- 
ways been.  But  what  was  this  new  light  which 
seemed  to  have  kindled  in  her  eyes  ? What  was 
this  look  of  peace,  which  nothing  could  disturb, 
which  smiled  serenely  through  all  the  little  mean- 
nesses with  which  the  daily  life  of  the  educational 
factory  surrounded  her,  — which  not  only  made 
her  seem  resigned,  but  overflowed  all  her  feat- 
ures with  a thoughtful,  subdued  happiness  ? Mr. 


294 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Bernard  did  not  know,  — perhaps  he  did  not 
guess.  The  inmates  of  the  Dudley  mansion  were 
not  scandalized  by  any  mysterious  visits  of  a 
veiled  or  unveiled  lady.  The  vibrating  tongues 
of  the  “ female  youth  ” of  the  Institute  were 
not  set  in  motion  by  the  standing  of  an  equipage 
at  the  gate,  waiting  for  their  lady  teacher.  The 
servants  at  the  mansion  did  not  convey  numer- 
ous letters  with  superscriptions  in  a bold,  manly 
hand,  sealed  with  the  arms  of  a well-known 
house,  and  directed  to  Miss  Helen  Darley ; nor, 
on  the  other  hand,  did  Hiram,  the  man  from  the 
lean  streak  in  New  Hampshire,  carry  sweet-smell- 
ing, rose-hued,  many-layered,  criss-crossed,  fine- 
stitch-lettered  packages  of  note-paper  directed  to 
Dudley  Venner,  Esq.,  and  all  too  scanty  to  hold 
that  incredible  expansion  of  the  famous  three 
words  which  a woman  was  born  to  say,  — that 
perpetual  miracle  which  astonishes  all  the  go- 
betweens  who  wear  their  shoes  out  in  carrying  a 
woman’s  infinite  variations  on  the  theme,  “ I love 
you.” 

But  the  reader  must  remember  that  there  are 
walks  in  country-towns  where  people  are  liable 
to  meet  by  accident,  and  that  the  hollow  of  an 
old  tree  has  served  the  purpose  of  a post-office 
sometimes  ; so  that  he  has  her  choice  (to  divide 
the  pronouns  impartially)  of  various  hypotheses 
to  account  for  the  new  glory  of  happiness  which 
seemed  to  have  irradiated  our  poor  Helen’s  feat- 
ures, as  if  her  dreary  life  were  awakening  in  the 
dawn  of  a blessed  future. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


295 


With  all  the  alleviations  which  have  been 
hinted  at,  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  thought  that  the 
days  and  the  weeks  had  never  moved  so  slowly 
as  through  the  last  period  of  the  autumn  that  was 
passing.  Elsie  had  been  a perpetual  source  of 
anxiety  to  him,  but  still  she  had  been  a com- 
panion. He  could  not  mourn  for  her;  for  he 
felt  that  she  was  safer  with  her  mother,  in  that 
world  where  there  are  no  more  sorrows  and  dan- 
gers, than  she  could  have  been  with  him.  But 
as  he  sat  at  his  window  and  looked  at  the  three 
mounds,  the  loneliness  of  the  great  house  made 
it  seem  more  like  the  sepulchre  than  these  nar- 
row dwellings  where  his  beloved  and  her  daugh- 
ter lay  close  to  each  other,  side  by  side,  — Cat- 
alina, .the  bride  of  his  youth,  and  Elsie,  the  child 
whom  he  had  nurtured,  with  poor  Old  Sophy, 
who  had  followed  them  like  a black  shadow,  at 
their  feet,  under  the  same  soft  turf,  sprinkled  with 
the  brown  autumnal  leaves.  It  was  not  good 
for  him  to  be  thus  alone.  How  should  he  ever 
live  through  the  long  months  of  November  and 
December  ? * 

The  months  of  November  and  December  did, 
in  some  way  or  other,  get  rid  of  themselves,  at 
last,  bringing  with  them  the  usual  events  of  vil- 
lage-life and  a few  unusual  ones.  Some  of  the 
geologists  had  been  up  to  look  at  the  great 
slide,  of  which  they  gave  those  prolix  accounts 
which  everybody  remembers  who  read  the  scien- 
tific journals  of  the  time.  The  engineers  re- 


296 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


ported  that  there  was  little  probability  of  any 
further  convulsion  along  the  line  of  rocks  which 
overhung  the  more  thickly  settled  part  of  the 
town.  The  naturalists  drew  up  a paper  on  the 
“ Probable  Extinction  of  the  Crotalus  Durissus 
in  the  Township  of  Rockland.”  The  engage- 
ment of  the  Widow  Rowens  to  a Little  Million- 
ville  merchant  was  announced,  — “ Sudding  ’n’ 
onexpected,”  Widow  Leech  said,  — “ waalthy,  or 
she  wouldn’t  ha’  looked  at  him,  — fifty  year  old, 
if  be  is  a day,  W hcCrtt  got  a white  hair  in  his 
headr  The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather 
had  publicly  announced  that  he  was  going  to 
join  the  Roman  Catholic  communion,  — not  so 
much  to  the  surprise  or  consternation  of  the  re- 
ligious world  as  he  had  supposed.  Several  old 
ladies  forthwith  proclaimed  their  intention  of 
following  him ; but,  as  one  or  two  of  them  were 
deaf,  and  another  had  been  threatened  with  an 
attack  of  that  mild,  but  obstinate  complaint,  de- 
mentia senilis , many  thought  it  was  not  so  much 
the  force  of  his  arguments  as  a kind  of  ten- 
dency to  jump  as  the  bellwether  jumps,  well 
known  in  flocks  not  included  in  the  Christian 
fold.  His  bereaved  congregation  immediately 
began  pulling  candidates  on  and  off,  like  new 
boots,  on  trial.  Some  pinched  in  tender  places  ; 
some  were  too  loose ; some  were  too  square- 
toed  ; some  were  too  coarse,  and  didn’t  please  ; 
some  were  too  thin,  and  wouldn’t  last;  — in 
short,  they  couldn’t  possibly  find  a fit.  At  last 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


297 


people  began  to  drop  in  to  hear  old  Doctor 
Honeywood.  They  were  quite  surprised  to  find 
what  a human  old  gentleman  he  was,  and  went 
back  and  told  the  others,  that,  instead  of  being 
a case  of  confluent  sectarianism,  as  they  sup- 
posed, the  good  old  minister  had  been  so  well 
vaccinated  with  charitable  virus  that  he  was 
now  a true,  open-souled  Christian  of  the  mildest 
type.  The  end  of  all  which  was,  that  the  liberal 
people  went  over  to  the  old  minister  almost  in 
a body,  just  -at  the  time  that  Deacon  Shearer 
and  the  u Vinegar-Bible  ” party  split  off,  and  that 
not  long  afterwards  they  sold  their  own  meet- 
ing-house to  the  maleconfents,  so  that  Deacon 
Soper  used  often  to  remind  Colonel  Sprowle  of 
his  wish  that  “ our  little  man  and  him  [the  Rev- 
erend Doctor]  would  swop  pulpits,”  and  tell  him 
it  had  “ pooty  nigh  come  trew.”  — But  this  is 
anticipating  the  course  of  events,  which  were 
much  longer  in  coming  about;  for  we  have  but 
just  got  through  that  terrible  long  month,  as  Mr. 
Dudley  Venner  found  it,  of  December. 

On  the  first  of  January,  Mr.  Silas  Peckham 
was  in  the  habit  of  settling  his  quarterly  ac- 
counts, and  making  such  new  arrangements  as 
his  convenience  or  interest  dictated.  New-Year 
was  a holiday  at  the  Institute.  No  doubt  this 
accounted  for  Helen’s  being  dressed  so  charm- 
ingly, — always,  to  be  sure,  in  her  own  simple 
way,  but  yet  with  such  a true  lady’s  air,  that 
she  looked  fit  to  be  the  mistress  of  any  mansion 
in  the  land. 


298 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


She  was  in  the  parlor  alone,  a little  before 
noon,  when  Mr.  Peckham  came  in. 

“ Pm  ready  to  settle  my  accaount  with  you 
now,  Miss  Darley,”  said  Silas. 

“ As  you  please,  Mr.  Peckham,”  Helen  an- 
swered, very  graciously. 

“ Before  payin’  you  your  selary,”  the  Principal 
continued,  “ I wish  to  come  to  an  understandin’ 
as  to  the  futur’.  I consider  that  I’ve  been 
payin’  high,  very  high,  for  the  work  you  do. 
Women’s  wages  can’t  be  expected  to  do  more 
than  feed  and  clothe  ’em,  as  a gineral  thing, 
with  a little  savin’,  in  case  of  sickness,  and  to 
bury  ’em,  if  they  break  daown,  as  all  of  ’em 
are  liable  to  do  at  any  time.  If  I a’n’t  misin- 
formed, you  not  only  support  yourself  out  of 
my  establishment,  but  likewise  relatives  of  yours, 
who  I don’t  know  that  I’m  called  upon  to  feed  and 
clothe.  There  is  a young  woman,  not  burdened 
with  destitute  relatives,  has  signified  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  take  your  dooties  for  less  pecoon- 
iary  compensation,  by  a consid’able  amaount,  than 
you  now  receive.  I shall  be  willin’,  however,  to 
retain  your  services  at  sech  redooced  rate  as  we 
shall  fix  upon,  — provided  sech  redooced  rate  be 
as  low  or  lower  than  the  same  services  can  be 
obtained  elsewhere.” 

44  As  you  please,  Mr.  Peckham,”  Helen  answered, 
with  a smile  so  sweet  that  the  Principal  (who 
of  course  had  trumped  up  this  opposition-teacher 
for  the  occasion)  said  to  himself  she  would 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


299 


stand  being  cut  down  a quarter,  perhaps  a half, 
of  her  salary. 

“ Here  is  your  accaount,  Miss  Darley,  and  the 
balance  doo  you,”  said  Silas  Peckham,  handing 
her  a paper  and  a small  roll  of  infectious-fla- 
vored  bills  wrapping  six  poisonous  coppers  of 
the  old  coinage. 

She  took  the  paper  and  began  looking  at  it. 
She  could  not  quite  make  up  her  mind  to  touch 
the  feverish  bills  with  the  cankering  coppers  in 
them,  and  left  them  airing  themselves  on  the 
table. 

The  document  she  held  ran  as  follows : 

Silas  Peckham , Esq .,  Principal  of  the  Apollinean  Institute , 

In  Account  with  Helen  Darley,  Assist.  Teacher . 
Dr. 

To  Salary  for  quarter 
ending  Jan.  1st,  @ 

$75  per  quarter  . $75.00 


$75.00 

Rockland,  Jan.  1st,  1859. 

Now  Helen  had  her  own  private  reasons  for 


By  Deduction  for  ab- 
sence, 1 week  3 days  $10.00 
“ Board,  lodging,  etc., 
for  10  days,  @ 75 
cts.  per  day  . . . 7.50 

M Damage  to  Institu- 
tion by  absence  of 
teacher  from  duties, 

say 25.00 

“ Stationery  furnished  43 

“ Postage-stamp  . . 01 

“ Balance  due  Helen 
Darley 32.06 

$75.00 


300 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


wishing  to  receive  the  small  sum  which  was  due 
her  at  this  time  without  any  unfair  deduction, 
— reasons  which  we  need  not  inquire  into  too 
particularly,  as  we  may  be  very  sure  that  they 
were  right  and  womanly.  So,  when  she  looked 
over  this  account  of  Mr.  Silas  Peckham’s,  and 
saw  that  he  had  contrived  to  pare  down  her 
salary  to  something  less  than  half  its  stipulated 
amount,  the  look  which  her  countenance  wore 
was  as  near  to  that  of  righteous  indignation  as 
her  gentle  features  and  soft  blue  eyes  would 
admit  of  its  being. 

66  Why,  Mr.  Peckham,55  she  said,  “ do  you  mean 
this  ? If  I am  of  so  much  value  to  you  that  you 
must  take  off  twenty-five  dollars  for  ten  days5  ab- 
sence, how  is  it  that  my  salary  is  to  be  cut  down 
to  less  than  seventy-five  dollars  a quarter,  if  I re- 
main here  ? 55 

“ I gave  you  fair  notice,55  said  Silas.  u I have 
a minute  of  it  I took  down  immed’ately  after  the 
intervoo.55 

He  lugged  out  his  large  pocket-book  with  the 
strap  going  all  round  it,  and  took  from  it  a slip  of 
paper  which  confirmed  his  statement. 

“ Besides,55  he  added,  slyly,  “ I presoom  you 
have  received  a liberal  pecooniary  compensation 
from  Squire  Yenner  for  nussin5  his  daughter.55 

Helen  was  looking  over  the  bill  while  he  was 
speaking. 

“ Board  and  lodging  for  ten  days,  Mr.  Peckham, 
* — whose  board  and  lodging,  pray  ? 55 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


301 


The  door  opened  before  Silas  Peckham  could 
answer,  and  Mr.  Bernard  walked  into  the  parlor. 
Helen  was  holding  the  bill  in  her  hand,  looking 
as  any  woman  ought  to  look  who  has  been  at 
once  wronged  and  insulted. 

“ The  last  turn  of  the  thumbscrew ! ” said  Mr. 
Bernard  to  himself.  “ What  is  it,  Helen  ? You 
look  troubled.” 

She  handed  him  the  account. 

He  looked  at  the  footing  of  it.  Then  he 
looked  at  the  items.  Then  he  looked  at  Silas 
Peckham. 

At  this  moment  Silas  was  sublime.  He  was 
so  transcendently  unconscious  of  the  emotions 
going  on  in  Mr.  Bernard’s  mind  at  the  moment, 
that  he  had  only  a single  thought. 

“ The  accaount’s  correc’ly  cast,  I presoom  ; — 
if  the’  ’s  any  mistake  of  figgers  or  addin’  ’em  up, 
it’ll  be  made  all  right.  Everything’s  accordin’  to 
agreement.  The  minute  written  immed’ately  jf- 
ter  the  intervoo  is  here  in  my  possession.” 

Mr.  Bernard  looked  at  Helen.  Just  what  would 
have  happened  to  Silas  Peckham,  as  he  stood 
then  and  there,  but  for  the  interposition  of  a 
merciful  Providence,  nobody  knows  or  ever  will 
know ; for  at  that  moment  steps  were  heard  upon 
the  stairs,  and  Hiram  threw  open  the  parlor-door 
for  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  to  enter. 

He  saluted  them  all  gracefully  with  the  good- 
wishes  of  the  season,  and  each  of  them  returned 
his  compliment,  — Helen  blushing  fearfully,  of 


302 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


course,  but  not  particularly  noticed  in  her  embar- 
rassment by  more  than  one. 

Silas  Peckham  reckoned  with  perfect  confi- 
dence on  his  Trustees,  who  had  always  said 
what  he  told  them  to,  and  done  what  he  wanted. 
It  was  a good  chance  now  to  show  off  his  power, 
and,  by  letting  his  instructors  know  the  unstable 
tenure  of  their  offices,  make  it  easier  to  settle  his 
accounts  and  arrange  his  salaries.  There  was 
nothing  very  strange  in  Mr.  Venner’s  calling;  he 
was  one  of  the  Trustees,  and  this  was  New  Year’s 
Day.  But  he  had  called  just  at  the  lucky  moment 
for  Mr.  Peckham’s  object. 

“ I have  thought  some  of  makin’  changes  in  the 
department  of  instruction,”  he  began.  u Several 
accomplished  teachers  have  applied  to  me,  who 
would  be  glad  of  sitooations.  I understand 
that  there  never  have  been  so  many  fust-rate 
teachers,  male  and  female,  out  of  employment 
a^  doorin’  the  present  season.  If  I can  make 
sahtisfahctory  arrangements  with  my  present 
corpse  of  teachers,  I shall  be  glad  to  do  so ; 
otherwise  I shell,  with  the  permission  of  the 
Trustees,  make  sech  noo  arrangements  as  cir- 
cumstahnces  compel.” 

“ You  may  make  arrangements  for  a new  as- 
sistant in  my  department,  Mr.  Peckham,”  said 
Mr.  Bernard,  “ at  once,  — this  day,  — this  hour. 
Iam  not  safe  to  be  trusted  with  your  person  five 
minutes  out  of  this  lady’s  presence,  — of  whom 
I beg  pardon  for  this  strong  language.  Mr.  Yen- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


303 


ner,  I must  beg  you,  as  one  of  the  Trustees  of 
this  Institution,  to  look  at  the  manner  in  which 
its  Principal  has  attempted  to  swindle  this  faith- 
ful teacher,  whose  toils  and  sacrifices  and  self- 
devotion  to  the  school  have  made  it  all  that  it  is, 
in  spite  of  this  miserable  trader’s  incompetence. 
Will  you  look  at  the  paper  I hold  ? ” 

Dudley  Venner  took  the  account  and  read  it 
through,  without  changing  a feature.  Then  he 
turned  to  Silas  Peckham. 

“ You  may  make  arrangements  for  a new  as- 
sistant in  the  branches  this  lady  has  taught.  Miss 
Helen  Darley  is  to  be  my  wife.  I had  hoped  to 
have  announced  this  news  in  a less  abrupt  and 
ungraceful  manner.  But  I came  to  tell  you  with 
my  own  lips  what  you  would  have  learned  before 
evening  from  my  friends  in  the  village.” 

Mr.  Bernard  went  to  Helen,  who  stood  silent, 
with  downcast  eyes,  and  took  her  hand  warmly, 
hoping  she  might  find  all  the  happiness  she  de- 
served. Then  he  turned  to  Dudley  Venner,  and 
said,  — 

“ She  is  a queen,  but  has  never  found  it  out. 
The  world  has  nothing  nobler  than  this  dear 
woman,  whom  you  have  discovered  in  the  dis- 
guise of  a teacher.  God  bless  her  and  you  ! ” 
Dudley  Venner  returned  his  friendly  grasp, 
without  answering  a word  in  articulate  speech. 

Silas  remained  dumb  and  aghast  for  a brief 
space.  Coming  to  himself  a little,  he  thought 
there  might  have  been  some  mistake  about  the 


304 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


items,  — would  like  to  have  Miss  Darley’ s bill 
returned,  — would  make  it  all  right,  — had  no 
idee  that  Squire  Venner  had  a special  interest 
in  Miss  Darley, — was  sorry  he  had  given  of- 
fence,— if  he  might  take  that  bill  .and  look  it 
over  

“ No,  Mr.  Peckham,”  said  Mr.  Dudley  Venner; 
“ there  will  be  a full  meeting  of  the  Board  next 
week,  and  the  bill,  and  such  evidence  with  refer- 
ence to  the  management  of  the  Institution  and 
the  treatment  of  its  instructors  as  Mr.  Langdon 
sees  fit  to  bring  forward  will  be  laid  before 
them.” 

Miss  Helen  Darley  became  that  very  day  the 
guest  of  Miss  Arabella  Thornton,  the  Judge’s 
daughter.  Mr.  Bernard  made  his  appearance  a 
week  or  two  later  at  the  Lectures,  where  the  Pro- 
fessor first  introduced  him  to  the  reader. 

He  stayed  after  the  class  had  left  the  room. 

“ Ah,  Mr.  Langdon  ! how  do  you  do  ? Very 
glad  to  see  you  back  again.  How  have  you  been 
since  our  correspondence  on  Fascination  and 
other  curious  scientific  questions  ? ” 

It  was  the  Professor  who  spoke,  — whom  the 
reader  will  recognize  as  myself,  the  teller  of  this 
story. 

“ I have  been  well,”  Mr.  Bernard  answered, 
with  a serious  look  which  invited  a further  ques- 
tion. 

“ I hope  you  have  had  none  of  those  painful 
or  dangerous  experiences  you  seemed  to  be  think- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


305 


ing  of  when  you  wrote  ; at  any  rate,  you  have 
escaped  having  your  obituary  written.” 

“ I have  seen  some  things  worth  remembering. 
Shall  I call  on  you  this  evening  and  tell  you 
about  them  ? ” 

“ I shall  be  most  happy  to  see  you.” 

This  was  the  way  in  which  I,  the  Professor, 
became  acquainted  with  some  of  the  leading 
events  of  this  story.  They  interested  me  suffi- 
ciently to  lead  me  to  avail  myself  of  all  those 
other  extraordinary  methods  of  obtaining  infor- 
mation well  known  to  writers  of  narrative. 

Mr.  Langdon  seemed  to  me  to  have  gained  in 
seriousness  and  strength  of  character  by  his  late 
experiences.  He  threw  his  whole  energies  into 
his  studies  with  an  effect  which  distanced  all  his 
previous  efforts.  Remembering  my  former  hint, 
he  employed  his  spare  hours  in  writing  for  the 
annual  prizes,  both  of  which  he  took  by  a unani- 
mous vote  of  the  judges.  Those  who  heard  him 
read  his  Thesis  at  the  Medical  Commencement 
will  not  soon  forget  the  impression  made  by  his 
fine  personal  appearance  and  manners,  nor  the 
reversal  interest  excited  in  the  audience,  as  he 
reed.  with  his  beautiful  enunciation,  that  striking 
paper  entitled  “ Unresolved  Nebulae  in  Vital  Sci- 
ence.” It  was  a general  remark  of  the  Faculty, 
— and  old  Doctor  Kittredge,  who  had  come  down 
on  purpose  to  hear  Mr.  Langdon,  heartily  agreed 
to  it,  — that  there  had  never  been  a diploma  filled 
20 


VOL.  II. 


306 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


up,  since  the  institution  which  conferred  upon 
him  the  degree  of  Doctor  Medicince  was  founded, 
which  carried  with  it  more  of  promise  to  the  pro- 
fession than  that  which  bore  the  name  of 


23crnartms  ©argl  HaufiTrom 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


307 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  had  no  sooner  taken 
his  degree,  than,  in  accordance  with  the  advice 
of  one  of  his  teachers  whom  he  frequently  con- 
sulted, he  took  an  office  in  the  heart  of  the  city 
where  he  had  studied.  He  had  thought  of  begin- 
ning in  a suburb  or  some  remoter  district  of  the 
city  proper. 

“ No,”  said  his  teacher, — to  wit,  myself, — 
“ don’t  do  any  such  thing.  You  are  made  for 
the  best  kind  of  practice ; don’t  hamper  yourself 
with  an  outside  constituency,  such  as  belongs  to 
a practitioner  of  the  second  class.  When  a fellow 
like  you  chooses  his  beat,  he  must  look  ahead  a 
little.  Take  care  of  all  the  poor  that  apply  to 
you,  but  leave  the  half-pay  classes  to  a different 
style  of  doctor,  — the  people  who  spend  one  half 
their  time  in  taking  care  of  their  patients,  and  the 
other  half  in  squeezing  out  their  money.  Go  for 
the  swell-fronts  and  south-exposure  houses;  the 
folks  inside  are  just  as  good  as  other  people,  and 
the  pleasantest,  on  the  whole,  to  take  care  of. 
They  must  have  somebody,  and  they  like  a gen- 
tleman best.  Don’t  throw  yourself  away.  You 


308 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


have  a good  presence  and  pleasing  manners. 
You  wear  white  linen  by  inherited  instinct. 
You  can  pronounce  the  word  view . You  have 
all  the  elements  of  success  ; go  and  take  it.  Be 
polite  and  generous,  but  don’t  undervalue  your- 
self.  You  will  be  useful,  at  any  rate  ; you  may 
just  as  well  be  happy,  while  you  are  about  it. 
The  highest  social  class  furnishes  incomparably 
the  best  patients,  taking  them  by  and  large.  Be- 
sides, when  they  won’t  get  well  and  bore  you  to 
death,  you  can  send  ’em  off  to  travel.  Mind  me 
now,  and  take  the  tops  of  your  sparrowgrass. 
Somebody  must  have  ’em,  — why  shouldn’t  you? 
If  you  don’t  take  your  chance,  you’ll  get  the  butt- 
ends  as  a matter  of  course.” 

- Mr.  Bernard  talked  like  a young  man  full  of 
noble  sentiments.  He  wanted  to  be  useful  to  his 
fellow-beings.  Their  social  differences  were  noth- 
ing to  him.  He  would  never  court  the  rich,  — 
he  would  go  where  he  was  called.  He  would 
rather  save  the  life  of  a poor  mother  of  a family 
than  that  of  half  a dozen  old  gouty  millionnaires 
whose  heirs  had  been  yawning  and  stretching 
these  ten  years  to  get  rid  of  them. 

“ Generous  emotions  ! ” I exclaimed.  “ Cher- 
ish ’em  ; cling  to  ’em  till  you  are  fifty,  till  you  are 
seventy,  till  you  are  ninety ! But  do  as  I tell 
you,  — strike  for  the  best  circle  of  practice,  and 
you’ll  be  sure  to  get  it ! ” 

Mr.  Langdon  did  as  I told  him,  — took  a gen- 
teel office,  furnished  it  neatly,  dressed  with  a 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


309 


certain  elegance,  soon  made  a pleasant  circle  of 
acquaintances,  and  began  to  work  his  way  into 
the  right  kind  of  business.  I missed  him,  how- 
ever, for  some  days,  not  long  after  he  had  opened 
his  office.  On  his  return,  he  told  me  he  had  been 
up  at  Rockland,  by  special  invitation,  to  attend 
the  wedding  of  Mr.  Dudley  Yenner  and  Miss 
Helen  Darley.  He  gave  me  a full  account  of 
the  ceremony,  which  I regret  that  I cannot  relate 
in  full.  “ Helen  looked  like  an  angel,” — that,  I 
am  sure,  was  one  of  his  expressions.  As  for  her 
dress,  I should  like  to  give  the  details,  but  am 
afraid  of  committing  blunders,  as  men  always  do, 
when  they  undertake  to  describe  such  matters. 
White  dress,  anyhow, — that  I am  sure  of, — 
with  orange-flowers,  and  the  most  wonderful  lace 
veil  that  was  ever  seen  or  heard  of.  The  Rever- 
end Doctor  Honeywood  performed  the  ceremony, 
of  course.  The  good  people  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten they  ever  had  had  any  other  minister,  — 
except  Deacon  Shearer  and  his  set  of  malecon- 
tents,  who  were  doing  a dull  business  in  the 
meeting-house  lately  occupied  by  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Fairweather. 

“ Who  was  at  the  wedding  ? ” 

“ Everybody,  pretty  much.  They  wanted  to 
keep  it  quiet,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  Married  at 
church.  Front  pews,  old  Doctor  Kittredge  and 
all  the  mansion-house  people  and  distinguished 
strangers,  — Colonel  Sprowle  and  family,  includ- 
ing Matilda’s  young  gentleman,  a graduate  of 
one  of  the  fresh-water  colleges,  — Mrs.  Pickins 


310 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


(late  Widow  Rowens)  and  husband, — Deacon 
Soper  and  numerous  parishioners.  A little  near- 
er the  door,  Abel,  the  Doctor’s  man,  and  Elbridge, 
who  drove  them  to  church  in  the  family-coach. 
Father  Fairweather,  as  they  all  call  him  now, 
came  in  late  with  Fath  er  Me  Shane.” 

“ And  Silas  Peckham  ? ” 

“ Oh,  Silas  had  left  The  School  and  Rockland. 
Cut  up  altogether  too  badly  in  the  examination 
instituted  by  the  Trustees.  Had  removed  over 
to  Tamarack,  and  thought  of  renting  a large 
house  and  c farming  ’ the  town-poor.” 

Some  time  after  this,  as  I was  walking  with  a 
young  friend  along  by  the  swell-fronts  and  south- 
exposures,  whom  shouid  I see  but  Mr.  Bernard 
Langdon,  looking  remarkably  happy,  and  keeping 
step  by  the  side  of  a very  handsome  and  singu- 
larly well-dressed  young  lady  ? He  bowed  and 
lifted  his  hat  as  we  passed. 

“ Who  is  that  pretty  girl  my  young  doctor  has 
got  there  ? ” I said  to  my  companion. 

“ Who  is  that?”  he  answered.  “You  don’t 
know  ? Why,  that  is  neither  more  nor  less  than 
Miss  Letitia  Forrester,  daughter  of — of — why, 
the  great  banking-firm,  you  know,  Bilyuns  Broth- 
ers & Forrester.  Got  acquainted  with  her  in  the 
country,  they  say.  There’s  a story  that  they’re 
engaged,  or  like  to  be,  if  the  firm  consents.” 

“ Oh  ! ” I said. 

I did  not  like  the  look  of  it  in  the  least.  Too 
young,  — too  young.  Has  not  taken  any  position 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


311 


yet.  No  right  to  ask  for  the  hand  of  Bilvnns 
Brothers  & Co.’s  daughter.  Besides,  it  will  spoil 
him  for  practice,  if  he  marries  a rich  girl  before 
he  has  formed  habits  of  work. 

I looked  in  at  his  office  the  next  day.  A box 
of  white  kids  was  lying  open  on  the  table.  A 
three-cornered  note,  directed  in  a very  delicate 
lady’s-hand,  was  distinguishable  among  a heap 
of  papers.  I was  just  going  to  call  him  to  ac- 
count for  his  proceedings,  when  he  pushed  the 
three-cornered  note  aside  and  took  up  a letter 
with  a great  corporation-seal  upon  it.  He  had 
received  the  offer  of  a professor’s  chair  in  an 
ancient  and  distinguished  institution. 

“ Pretty  well  for  three-and-twenty,  my  boy,” 
I said.  “ I suppose  you’ll  think  you  must  be 
married  one  of  these  days,  if  you  accept  this 
office.” 

Mr.  Langdon  blushed.  — There  had  been  sto- 
ries about  him,  he  knew.  His  name  had  been 
mentioned  in  connection  with  that  of  a very 
charming  young  lady.  The  current  reports  were 
not  true.  He  had  met  this  young  lady,  and  been 
much  pleased  with  her,  in  the  country,  at  the 
house  of  her  grandfather,  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Honeywood,  — you  remember  Miss  Letitia  For- 
rester, whom  I have  mentioned  repeatedly  ? On 
coming  to  town,  he  found  his  country-acquaint- 
ance in  a social  position  which  seemed  to  dis- 
courage his  continued  intimacy.  He  had  discov- 
ered, however,  that  he  was  a not  unwelcome 
visitor,  and  had  kept  up  friendly  relations  with 


312 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


her.  But  there  was  no  truth  in  the  current  re- 
ports, — none  at  all. 

Some  months  had  passed,  after  this  visit,  when 
I happened  one  evening  to  stroll  into  a box  in  one 
of  the  principal  theatres  of  the  city.  A small 
party  sat  on  the  seats  before  me  : a middle-aged 
gentleman  and  his  lady,  in  front,  and  directly 
behind  them  my  young  doctor  and  the  same  very 
handsome  young  lady  I had  seen  him  walking 
with  on  the  sidewalk  before  the  swell-fronts  and 
south-exposures.  As  Professor  Langdon  seemed 
. to  be  very  much  taken  up  with  his  companion, 
and  both  of  theta  looked  as  if  they  were  enjoying 
themselves,  I determined  not  to  make  my  pres- 
ence known  to  my  young  friend,  and  to  withdraw 
quietly  after  feasting  my  eyes  with  the  sight  of 
them  for  a few  minutes. 

“ It  looks  as  if  something  might  come  of  it,” 
I said  to  myself.  At  that  moment  the  young 
lady  lifted  her  arm  accidentally  in  such  a way 
that  the  light  fell  upon  the  clasp  of  a chain  which 
encircled  her  wrist.  My  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
I read  upon  the  clasp,  in  sharp-cut  Italic  letters, 
E.  V.  They  were  tears  at  once  of  sad  remem- 
brance and  of  joyous  anticipation ; for  the  orna- 
ment on  which  I looked  was  the  double  pledge 
of  a dead  sorrow  and  a living  affection.  It  was 
the  golden  bracelet,  — the  parting-gift  of  Elsie 
Venner. 


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ered before  the  Institute  in  1840-4 1-4 2-43-44-45-4C-47-48-49- 
50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59.  20  vols.  12mo.  Sold  in  sepa- 
rate volumes,  each  50  cents. 

Bacon’s  (Delia)  the  Siiaksperian  Problem  Solved. 
With  an  Introduction  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  1 vol.  8vo. 
Cloth.  $3.00. 

Bartol’s  Church  and  Congregation.  1 vol.  16mo. 
Cloth.  $1.00. 

Bailey’s  Essays  on  Opinions  and  Truth.  1 vol. 
16mo.  Cloth.  $1.00. 

Barry  Cornwall’s  Essays  and  Tales  in  Prose. 
2 vols.  $1.50. 

Boston  Book.  Being  Specimens  of  Metropolitan  Litera- 
ture. Cloth,  $1.25;  gilt  edge,  $1.75;  full  gilt,  $2.00. 
Buckingham’s  (J.  T.)  Personal  Memoirs.  With  Por- 
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Channing’s  (E.  T.)  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Ora- 
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Channing’s  (Dr.  Walter)  Physician’s  Vacation. 
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Coale’s  (Dr.  W.  E.)  Hints  on  Health.  1 vol.  lGmo. 
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Combe  on  the  Constitution  of  Man.  30th  edition. 
12mo.  Cloth.  75  cents. 

Chapel  Liturgy.  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  according 
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$3.50;  do.  gilt  edge,  $4.00;  do.  extra  gilt  edge,  $4.50. 

The  Same.  Cheaper  edition.  1 vol.  12mo.  Sheep,  $1.50. 
Crosland’s  (Mrs.)  Lydia:  A Woman’s  Book.  1 vol. 
75  cents. 

“ “ English  Tales  and  Sketches. 

1 vol.  $1.00. 

Crosland’s  (Mrs.)  Memorable  Women.  Illustrated. 

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Dana’s  (R.  H.)  To  Cuba  and  Back.  1 vol.  lGmo. 
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12  A Lift  of  Books  Publifhed 


Dufferin’s  (Lord)  Yacht  Voyage.  1 vol.  16mo. 
Cloth.  $1.00. 

El  Fureidis.  By  the  author  of  “ The  Lamplighter.” 
1 vol.  16mo.  Cloth.  $1.00. 

Ernest  Carroll  ; or,  Artist-Life  in  Italy.  1 vol. 
16mo.  Cloth.  88  cents. 

Fremont’s  Life,  Explorations,  and  Public  Ser- 
vices. By  C.  W.  Upham.  With  Illustrations.  1 vol.  16mo. 
Cloth.  75  cents. 

Gaskell’s  (Mrs.)  Ruth.  A Novel.  8vo.  Paper.  38  cts. 
Guesses  at  Truth.  By  Two  Brothers.  1 vol.  12mo. 
$1.50. 

Greenwood’s  (F.  W.  P.)  Sermons  of  Consolation. 

16mo.  Cloth,  $1.00;  cloth,  gilt  edge,  $1.50; 
morocco,  plain  gilt  edge,  $2.00;  morocco, 
extra  gilt  edge,  $2.50. 

“ History  of  the  King’s  Chapel,  Bos- 

ton. 12mo.  Cloth.  50  cents. 

Hodson’s  Soldier’s  Life  in  India.  1 vol.  16mo.  Cloth. 
$1.00. 

Ho witt’s  (William)  Land,  Labor,  and  Gold.  2 vols. 
$2.00. 

“ “ A Boy’s  Adventures  in  Austra- 

lia. 75  cents. 

Howitt’s  (Anna  Mary)  An  Art  Student  in  Munich. 
$1.25. 

“ “ A School  of  Life.  A Story. 

75  cents. 

Hufeland’s  Art  of  Prolonging  Life.  1 vol.  16mo. 
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Jerrold’s  (Douglas)  Life.  By  his  Son.  1 vol.  16mo. 
Cloth.  $1.00. 

u u Wit.  By  his  Son.  1 vol.  16 mo. 

Cloth.  75  cents. 

Judson’s  (Mrs.  E.  C.)  Alderbrook.  By  Fanny  For- 
rester. 2 vols.  $1.75. 

“ “ The  Kathayan  Slave,  and 

other  Papers.  1 vol.  63  cents. 
“ “ My  two  Sisters  : A Sketch 

from  Memory.  50  cents. 

Ravanagh’s  (Julia)  Seven  Years.  8vo.  Paper.  30 

cents. 

Kingsley’s  (Henry)  Geoffry  Hamlyn.  1 vol.  12mo. 
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Krapf’s  Travels  and  Researches  in  Eastern 
Africa.  1 vol.  12mo.  Cloth.  $1.25. 

Leslie’s  (C.  R.)  Autobiographical  Recollections. 
Edited  by  Tom  Taylor.  With  Portrait.  1 vol.  12mo.  Cloth. 
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by  Ticknor  and  Fields.  13 


Lake  House.  From  the  German  of  Fanny  Lewald. 
1 vol.  16mo.  Cloth.  75  cents. 

Lowell's  (Rev.  Dr.  Charles)  Practical  Sermons. 

1 vol.  12mo.  Cloth. 
$1.25. 

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With  tine  Portrait.  1 
vol.  12mo.  Cloth.  $1.25. 
Light  on  the  Dark  River;  or,  Memoirs  of  Mrs. 

Hamlin.  1 vol.  16mo.  Cloth.  $1.00. 

The  Same.  16mo.  Cloth,  gilt  edge.  $1.50. 

Longfellow  (Rev.  S.)  and  Johnson  (Rev.  S.)  A book 
of  Hymns  for  Public  and  Private  Devotion.  0th  edition. 
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Lee’s  (Mrs.  E.  B.)  Memoir  of  the  Buckminsters. 

$1.25. 

“ “ Florence,  the  Parish  Orphan. 

50  cents. 

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Lunt’s  (George)  Three  Eras  in  the  History  of 
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Mademoiselle  Mori  : A Tale  of  Modern  Rome.  1 vol. 
12mo.  Cloth.  $1.25. 

M‘Clintock’s  Narrative  of  the  Search  for  Sir 
John  Franklin.  Library  edition.  With  Maps  and  Illustra- 
tions. 1 vol.  small  8vo.  $1.50. 

The  Same.  Popular  Edition.  1 vol.  12mo.  75  cents. 

Mann’s  (Horace)  Thoughts  for  a Young  Man. 

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Mann’s  (Mrs.  Horace)  Physiological  Cookery-Book. 

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Melville’s  Holmby  House.  A Novel.  8vo.  Paper. 
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Mitfqrd’s  (Miss)  Our  Village.  Illustrated.  2 vols. 
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“ “ Atherton,  and  other  Stories. 

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Morley’s  Life  of  Palissy  the  Potter.  2 vols.  16mo. 
Cloth.  $1.50. 

Mountford’s  Thorpe.  1 vol.  16mo.  Cloth.  $1.00. 
Norton’s  (C.  E.)  Travel  and  Study  in  Italy.  1 vol. 
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morocco,  plain,  $2.50;  do.  gilt  edge,  $3.00. 


14  A Lilt  of  Books  Publifhed 


Otis’s  (Mrs.  H.  G.)  The  Barclays  of  Boston.  1 voL 

Cloth.  $1.25. 

Parsons’s  (Theophilus)  Life.  By  Lis  Son.  1 vol.  12mo. 
Cloth.  $1.50. 

Prescott’s  History  of  the  Electric  Telegraph. 

Illustrated.  1 vol.  12mo.  Cloth.  $1.75. 

Poore’s  (Ben  Perley)  Louis  Philippe.  1 vol.  12mo. 
Cloth.  $1.00. 

Phillips’s  Elementary  Treatise  on  Mineralogy. 
With  numerous  additions  to  the  Introduction.  By  Francis  Al- 
ger. With  numerous  Engravings.  1vol.  New  edition  in  press. 
Prior’s  Life  of  Edmund  Burke.  2 vols.  16mo.  Cloth. 
$2.00. 

Bab  and  his  Friends.  By  John  Brown,  M.  D.  Illus- 
trated. 15  cents. 

Sala’s  Journey  Due  North.  1 vol.  16tno.  Cloth. 

$1.00. 

Scott’s  (Sir  Walter)  Iyanhoe.  In  one  handsome  vol- 
ume. $1.75. 

Sidney’s  (Sir  Philip)  Life.  Bv  Mrs.  Davis.  1 vol. 
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Shelley  Memorials.  Edited  by  the  Daughter-in-law 
of  the  Poet.  1 vol.  16mo.  75  cents. 

Sword  and  Gown.  By  the  Author  of  “ Guy  Living- 
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Shakspear’s  (Captain  H.)  Wild  Sports  of  India. 
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Semi-Detached  House.  A Novel.  1 vol.  16mo.  Cloth. 
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Smith’s  (William)  Thorndale  ; or,  The  Conflict 
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Sumner’s  (Charles)  Orations  and  Speeches.  2 vols. 
16mo.  Cloth.  $2.50. 

St.  John’s  (Bayle)  Village  Life  in  Egypt.  2 vols.  lGmo. 
Cloth.  $1.25. 

Tyndall’s  (Professor)  Glaciers  of  the  Alps.  With 

Illustrations.  1 vol.  Cloth.  $1.50. 

Tyll  Owlglass’s  Adventures.  With  Illustrations  by 
Crowquill.  1 vol.  Cloth,  gilt.  $2.50. 

The  Solitary  of  Juan  Fernandez.  By  the  Author  of 
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Taylor’s  (Henry)  Notes  from  Life.  1 vol.  16mo. 
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Trelawny’s  Becollections  of  Shelley  and  Byron. 
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Thoreau’s  Walden:  A Life  in  the  Woods.  1 vol. 
16mo.  Cloth.  $1.00. 

Warren’s  (Dr.  John  C.)  Life.  By  Edward  Warren, 

M.  D.  2 vols.  8vo.  $3.50. 

“ “ The  Preservation  of  Health. 

1 vol.  38  cents. 


by  Ticknor  and  Fields.  15 


Wallis’s  (S.  T.)  Spain  and  her  Institutions.  1 vol. 
16mo.  Cloth.  $1.00, 

Wordsworth’s  (William)  Biography.  By  Dr.  Chris- 
topher Wordsworth.  2 vols.  16mo.  Cloth.  $2.50. 
Wens*ley:  A Story  without  a Moral.  1 vol.  16mo.  ’ 
Paper.  50  cents. 

The  Same.  Cloth.  75  cents. 

Wheaton’s  (Robert)  Memoirs.  1 vol.  16mo.  Cloth. 

$1.00. 

In  Blue  and  Gold. 

Longfellow’s  Poetical  Works.  2 vols.  $1.75. 

44  Prose  Works.  2 vols.  $1.75. 

Tennyson’s  Poetical  Works.  2 vols.  $ 50. 
Whittier’s  Poetical  Works.  2 vols.  $1.50. 

Leigh  Hunt’s  Poetical  Works.  2 vols.  $1.50. 
Gerald  Massey’s  Poetical  Works.  1 vol.  75  cents. 
Mrs.  Jameson’s  Characteristics  of  Women.  75  cts. 
44  Diary  of  an  Ennuyee.  1 vol.  75  cts. 

“ Loves  of  the  Poets.  1 vol.  75  cts. 

44  Sketches  of  Art,  &c.  1 vol.  75  cts. 

“ Studies  and  Stories.  1 vol.  75  cts. 

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44  Legends  of  the  Madonna.  1 vol. 

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Owen  Meredith’s  Poems.  1 vol.  75  cents. 

44  Lucile  : A Poem.  1 vol.  75  cents. 

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Sydney  Dobell’s  Poems.  1 vol.  75  cents. 

William  Allingham’s  Poems.  1 vol.  75  cents.  In  Press. 
Horace.  Translated  by  Theodore  Martin.  1 vol.  75  cts. 


1 6 A Li£t  of  Books  Publifhed. 


Works  lately  Published. 

Faithful  Forever.  By  Coventry  Patmore,  Author  of 
“ The  Angel  in  the  House.”  1 vol.  $1.00.  • 

Over  the  Cliffs  : A Novel.  By  Charlotte  Chanter, 
(a  sister  of  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley.)  1 vol.  $1.00. 

The  Becreations  of  a Country  Parson.  1 vol. 
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Beminiscences  of  Scottish  Life  and  Character. 
By  Dean  Ramsay.  From  the  Seventh  Enlarged  Edinburgh 
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Poems  by  Bev.  Wm.  Croswell,  D.  D.  Edited,  with  a 
Memoir,  by  Rev.  Arthur  Cleveland  Coxe,  D.  D.  1 vol.  $1.00. 

Personal  History  of  Lord  Bacon.  From  Original 
Letters  and  Documents.  By  Hepworthi  Dixon.  1 vol.  $1.25. 

Poems.  By  Bose  Terry.  1 vol.  16mo.  75  cents. 

The  Autobiography  of  the  Bev.  Dr.  Alexander 
Carlyle.  Containing  Memorials  of  the  Men  and  Events  of 
his  Times.  Edited  by  John  Hill  Burton. 

Favorite  Authors  : A Companion  Book  of  Prose  and 
Poetry.  With  26  fine  Steel  Portraits.  $2.50. 

Heroes  of  Europe.  A capital  Boy’s  Book.  With  16 
Illustrations.  1 vol.  16mo.  $1.00. 

Bonnie  Scotland.  By  Grace  Greenwood.  Illustrated. 
75  cents. 

The  Seven  Little  Sisters,  who  live  in  the  Bound  Ball 
that  floats  in  the  Air.  Illustrated.  63  cents. 


y ,9/'ST*7  y 


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